None Of The Usual Inducements
by Adelie P
Summary: Éomer of Rohan returns to Gondor to visit his sister and Faramir in Emyn Arnen. There also he finds a changed Lothíriel, or a changing Lothíriel - something unexpected and inconvenient, anyway. Amidst diplomatic disasters, chats about the weather, and the fair woods of Ithilien, Lothíriel ponders what she wants in life, and Éomer must decide what he wants in love.
1. Prologue

_This story is a sequel to First Impressions. It holds up well as a standalone, but some things will make more sense if you read that first._

* * *

 **Prologue**

She found him in his study, studying the plans for his new flagship. It had been his favourite project of late, and he kept close tabs on every stage of development. Ivriniel shook her head and pursed her lips. Unlike her brother, she had never wished to conquer the sea. She just wanted to be close to it.

"Imrahil?"

He looked up, with a calm and mildly questioning expression, as if he did not know perfectly well why she was there.

"We have to talk about this." Ivriniel did not wait for an invitation but sat down on the armchair next to the fireplace. There was no fire, of course. It was only Gwirith, but a spring heatwave had held Dol Amroth in a sweltering grip for the past weeks. Ivriniel's silks clung to her body uncomfortably. She found the heat harder to deal with as she got older, and usually preferred to remain in her sitting-room with its northwestern windows that let in a gentle breeze from the shore.

"About what, sister?" Imrahil asked, a good-natured smile plastered on his face.

"Don't play the fool with me, even if that is what you are."

He just smiled wider, and it infuriated her. Imrahil was like the rocky cliffs of Dol Amroth itself: no matter how many tidal waves and torrential rains you swung at them, they would simply stand there, unmoved, unchanged. It was his strength, but also the deep and longstanding frustration of the rest of his family.

"I spoke to Lady Raedrith today. She tells me you mean to refuse Lord Glirion's offer."

"Tell Lady Raedrith I am disappointed in her. She is usually so abreast with all current affairs of my family."

Ivriniel almost breathed a sigh of relief. "You will accept, then?"

"I'm afraid not," said Imrahil, bending over his papers again. "I turned him away days ago."

"Imri!"

He looked up politely. "I take it you disagree?"

She gritted her teeth. "It would have been a great match for Lothíriel."

"Oh?"

"She would be comfortable, settled near her family…"

"Married to a minor lord dependent on the goodwill of his wealthier and more powerful relations," said Imrahil, his voice still light, but she could detect a first hint of annoyance. It felt like a victory of sorts.

"His family is kin to ours through our great-uncle Amarthir," said Ivriniel.

"Ah. So what are you suggesting? He has a claim to Dol Amroth?" said Imrahil.

"A very distant one, yes, technically, but that is not the point."

"Then what is the point? I do not see how the man could be said to be a great match for a Princess of Dol Amroth." Imrahil's tone was curt now.

"That is not what I said. I said he would be a great match for Lothíriel."

"Lothíriel is a Princess of Dol Amroth."

Ivriniel sighed and clucked her tongue. It was a bad habit she had never been able to shake completely, and that resurfaced every time she was exasperated. "Do you _know_ your own daughter? A better match will bring her no pleasure."

"Do _you_ know my daughter?" countered Imrahil blandly. "She would never be ruled by a man like Lord Glirion. He cannot hope to keep up with her."

At least her little brother was not completely blind. "Exactly!"

Imrahil looked almost amused. "You wish for Lothíriel to walk all over her future husband?"

"I want her happiness."

"Ivriniel, you know as well as I that Lord Glirion is a complete idiot."

There was no denying that. "He's a good man and he would worship her. She'd be safe and protected, and not burdened with duties beyond her will and ability."

Imrahil started tidying his desk, stacking the books and rolls of parchment with perfunctory care. "As always you don't seem to think very highly of my daughter."

The unfair accusation stung her, and the wording too. His daughter, indeed. "I love Lothíriel as much as you. She is my niece, and might as well be my own. But I am not blind to her faults."

"Neither am I. I know she is… spirited."

Ivriniel bit back a condescending retort. She had no wish to antagonise her brother when reason might still prevail. "Imrahil, the role you envision for her would not suit her," she tried patiently. "Lothíriel has never shown the slightest bit of interest in the running of Dol Amroth."

The Prince seemed to be losing interest. "She would pick it up soon enough."

"Not if she does not want to pick it up." Ivriniel had yet to meet a child more skilled at getting out of lessons and duties she considered undesirable than her niece. At times she believed Lothíriel to be a plague sent to her from some dark underworld, and at other times she was equally convinced Lothíriel was the most enchanting and genuine maiden there ever was. Regardless, Ivriniel was always certain that her niece was trouble: reckless and, as she was ageing, an incorrigible flirt too. Why, they should probably count themselves lucky that they had made it through twenty years without the girl running off with some juggler from Harad.

"Oh, honestly, Ivriniel. You're too hung up on her childish pranks," Ivriniel started to protest but Imrahil held up his hand. "Have you seen her lately? She's a grown woman now, and quite beautiful besides. She's perfectly ready to manage her own household. All she needs is a steadying influence."

"Ha! You allow her to run wild for years and then just expect her to fall into step when you notice she has the body of a woman? By the Valar, but you are a fool." The thing was, it was hard to be diplomatic with the little brother she knew and loved so well. She had been at his side through all the good and bad years, and witnessed all his mistakes as well.

"Oh, she might fuss a little at first. But if you think that she would not fight against a match with Lord Glirion…"

"You are her father. You can make her accept. You have always been too indulgent with her, Imri, always." Imrahil simply raised an eyebrow at her and she swallowed the rest of that rant. "You know I only want what is best for her."

"Lord Glirion is the very opposite of what is best for her."

Lord Glirion was a young man of thirty-six, perhaps a little old for Lothíriel but nothing out of the ordinary. He had known Lothíriel growing up, laughed politely at her pranks (even if he did not understand half the time when he was being made fun of) and was apparently still willing to put up with her. That qualified him as a good man in Ivriniel's books. "Be reasonable, brother."

"I do not want my daughter ending up with a husband she does not respect and could not admire or, for that matter, love."

"Better than a husband who does not respect her and would seek to make her into something she is not."

"You surprise me, sister, I thought you would be a little bit more romantic than that."

"Romantic?" Now she was truly angry. "How about Mirdis? And Finduilas? Will you honestly allow the same mistakes to be made all over again?"

Imrahil's mouth drew into a sharp line and his eyes narrowed. "Ivriniel, now you go too far."

She felt a flash of guilt, but at this point she would do anything to make her brother see clearly. "Do you not want to be free of this cycle?"

"There is no cycle. And Lothíriel is nothing like Mirdis."

Lothíriel reminded Ivriniel so much of her sister-in-law that it often broke her heart.

"You let yourself be taken in because she is always parroting that blasted son of yours." She did not need to specify that she meant Amrothos. Elphir and Erchirion were her nephews, but Amrothos was always Imrahil's son (usually with a colourful epithet or two). "It makes you believe she is sophisticated and self-possessed, when she could not be more unworldly. But you are right, she is worse than Mirdis, because she is wilful too! She will break before she bends."

"Now you are being deliberately dramatic."

"And you are determined to bring misery to your daughter, and her future husband. You should know this better than anyone!"

"Ivriniel!" His voice was sharp as a whip and Ivriniel started and fell silent. Then Imrahil sighed and recollected himself. His next words were low and quiet. "You know I regret not a single day with her."

There was pain in his eyes, but wistfulness too and for the first time in nearly ten years Ivriniel felt ready to burst into tears. Then she shook it off. Love made such fools of men! "I did not think you would be so selfish," she said at last.

"I want something better for Lothíriel than that blabbering imbecile!" said Imrahil. "There is nothing wrong with that."

"Better, or more advantageous?" asked Ivriniel shrewdly.

"Both, if possible. Of course I wish to see my only daughter settled well."

That was all she wanted for Lothíriel also, but she knew the kind of man Imrahil had in mind, and it did not bode well for her free and easy niece. She would be like a fish out of water in such a marriage … like a Princess of Dol Amroth away from the sea.

Meanwhile, her brother had turned his attention back to the plans on his desk. "Imri, do not let your pride and ambition stand in the way of her happiness," she said at last.

With a stylus he added a few lines to the sketch, extending the hull another three feet or so. "I will not. But neither will I allow your fears to."

There was nothing left to be said and Ivriniel departed the room full of misgivings and bitter memories.

* * *

 _A/N As always, I am borrowing Tolkien's wonderful sandbox for entertainment purposes only. This series is the completely out of control result of a momentary reverie in which I realised how cool it would have been had Jane Austen written Middle-Earth fanfiction (hence the working title:_ Pride and Prejudice and Uruk-Hai _). All allusions to Austen's works are deliberate, but this is not a crossover and you need no knowledge of Jane Austen to read it._


	2. The Blessing of a Female Correspondent

**The Blessing of a Female Correspondent**

The Fifth After Midsummer. TA 3020.

From Éowyn, Princess of Ithilien, to Éomer, King of Rohan

Dearest brother,

I thank you for your latest letter, your well wishes and the barrels of mead you sent us. I was surprised to receive a missive from you so soon after my last! Either Edoras is closer to Ithilien than it was before (and who knows, the world has been changing so much lately it could well be so), or you truly miss me (even though you put none of that in writing). But I have ever been the braver of the two of us, you know it is so, and I will say I miss you very much indeed. I hope you are well and happy, Éomer, and not just in good health. I have never doubted your constitution. You must tell me more about how you are doing, how you are feeling, and how our people are faring.

Though of course I continue to appreciate your detailed reports of the foaling season. Those were some very thoughtful expositions to share with your pregnant sister.

Everything is well with the babe - or so I am given to understand by our Healer, who seems determined to fuss over every turn and change. Faramir is worse still, but also very pleased. And I? I cannot deny that I am no more used to the idea now than I was in winter. It is too strange to think of myself as a mother before I am even halfway reconciled to being a wife! These changes in my life have come so rapid and absolute that even when I pause and look back I cannot quite remember how I got here. But I do not mean to alarm you; I am happy and Faramir has been nothing but wonderful to me (so please stop asking Amrothos to check up on us; he is wearing out both my husband and our wine cellar. There's also no need: we are no longer arguing, and I think I managed to convince Faramir that it is quite common for women of our country to ride until the seventh month and that it does not endanger the child). (And don't you dare tell him anything different, brother. I am warning you).

I was sorry you could not visit us at Midsummer, and envied you some as well. I missed the celebrations of the Mark, the midnight swims and wreaths of wildflowers, the dances and even those sickly sweet strawberry cakes you like so much. Midsummer in Minas Tirith was as grand and formal an affair as you will undoubtedly imagine. The city dressed in silks and colours, fairs, pageants and rhymes I could not understand, all culminating in a masked ball to celebrate the longest day. In all fairness, it was rather fun and after the sun finally set even the stiffest of this Gondorian nobility proved they are not entirely bereft of spirit and high jinks. I will say no more, except that masks are not truly as effective at disguising one's identity as the tales suggest, and that we are all a little sorry for it.

And dear, dear Éomer, of course (I should have opened with this) you would be most welcome here in autumn. The babe is due just after the harvest festivals and Faramir tells me that there is no place lovelier than Ithilien when the leaves turn gold and grey, and the days shorten but the sun and waters are at their warmest. And it must be true, especially now, after the wonderful surprise awaiting us when we returned from Minas Tirith after Midsummer: Legolas and Gimli have returned to Gondor, and Legolas brought with him some of his kin to dwell in Ithilien. Faramir is almost as excited about our new neighbours as he is about becoming a father.

You asked me how I liked being a lady at the court of Gondor, and I could just imagine your tone of voice there, and the glint in your eyes. But in truth, my dear brother, it is nothing so bad as that. The Queen has been unfailingly kind, and many of the ladies who might otherwise have been less welcoming are so dazzled by her that they are eager to emulate her example. She and her maids have also been ordering wool and linen out of Edoras - did you know this? - and so Rohan is now - what do they say - all the rage. But I would not wish you to get the wrong impression. Many of the women I meet here are pleasant company, both friendly and learned, even if they do not always know what to make of a shieldmaiden of the Mark.

Then again, even the Riddermark does not always know what to make of its shieldmaidens. But we have discussed that before.

I see what you mean about Gondorian etiquette and social conventions, though. Especially the ladies are very adept at weaving a web of meaningless politeness and gentle probing, and before you know it, you have agreed to something that goes against both your nature and good sense. Indeed: I found myself attempting to ride in a sidesaddle for the first time some weeks ago. Do not fear (or laugh): it did not last long and now I am hoping to persuade Faramir to outlaw the dreadful things… I am afraid he currently underestimates the pressing urgency of that particular political issue, but perhaps you can help me convince him.

I will not bore you with tales of my pregnancy, such as it is, but be assured I am well.

Take care of yourself, Éomer, and all of us look forward to seeing you in the autumn.

With all my love,

Éowyn

oOo

TA 3020.

King Elessar, the Elfstone, of House Telcontar, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the Reunified Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, sends his greetings to his brother, Éomer of Rohan, King of the Riddermark, from Minas Tirith on the twentieth day of Cerveth. He wishes to inform King Éomer that he has called a Great Council in Ithilien, to confer with his allies, including those tribes of Harad who now fall within the King's Peace, and that he greatly desires his brother's presence, support and counsel. He expects to greet him there after the harvest feasts of Yáviérë are concluded.

P.S. The King includes a missive from Arwen, who somehow has got it in her head that he is not the warmest of correspondents.

oOo

Dear Éomer,

I hope our letters find you well and that before long we may greet you in Ithilien. Forgive my husband; he has never been the best of correspondents when he is preoccupied. On behalf of both of us I also beg your forgiveness for once again imposing on your family affairs with political and strategic councils. A delegation from Harad (from those tribes that negotiated peace with Gondor and Rohan after the war) will travel to Gondor this autumn, and much depends on this visit. Our main purpose is to reopen trading routes between our nations, but I know Estel hopes for their aid against the remaining dissenting tribes. The peace is still so fragile, and there have been rumours… Well, I need not tell you of the centuries of bad blood between Gondor and the peoples of the south, and the great wish Estel harbours to end the cycle of violence. When we spoke of this last year you seemed to share this desire, and as Rohan has never failed to stand by us in war, so I hope it may also be in peace. Besides, we have all of us not met in friendship since that summer month we spent at Edoras. So please come. You would be very welcome.

But! I resolved this letter would not be all business, and I shall keep my word. On to pleasant things! Here in Gondor all is well. Legolas and Gimli have recently returned to us (they send you their fondest greetings and thank you again for your hospitality), and already their help with the restoration of our land has been invaluable. I have high hopes you will find the city somewhat less faded and forbidding than last time you were here. Meanwhile, Gimli is still full of his plans for the Glittering Caves at Helm's Deep and he will undoubtedly wish to speak with you more about them in Ithilien. You are hereby forewarned.

Aragorn and I visit your sister and Faramir in Emyn Arnen when we are able, for it is always such a joy to see them, and they have made a lovely home. I am certain you will approve. Your sister fares well, and her pregnancy has made her only more fair and radiant. She is a great favourite in her new country, especially of course with Faramir's household, and fits in quite effortlessly; and although it is hard to convince her to come to the city at all, we continue to receive her here occasionally. But I am sure she is writing to you as well and probably much more capable of informing you about her life.

Some news came from the Shire that you may not have heard: Master Samwise has engaged himself to Rosie Cotton and they are to be married in some weeks (or perhaps they have married already; it takes a while for messages to pass over the mountains, even now the roads are being restored and the west is much safer than it was). Did Estel tell you of his plans to visit their lands and dwell in the north for some time? This will be after our troubles with the eastern and southern borders are resolved, of course, so it may not be for some years, but it is a great wish of his and mine, too. I am sure our hearts will always take us west.

I must thank you again for the yearlings you sent us for our anniversary; they are so very beautiful and I can hardly believe you could bear to part with them. We also thank you for the detailed instructions and guidance on their care and training, all of which your squire carefully and diplomatically conveyed to our stable master. It was wonderful to see how much Aldor had grown in a year; so sudden can be the change from boy to man.

I shall end this letter here, for I promised my maids to go for a ride and a picnic this afternoon and I think I am trying their patience. Lothíriel is reminding me to ask you to impart her greetings to her friends in Edoras - Aldor, Alodie and Éothain - and I am taking the liberty to assume she meant to include you in this declaration. So, in short, you are much missed here and we hope to see you soon in Emyn Arnen.

With warm greetings,

Arwen Undómiel

* * *

 _Author's notes: Aragorn's formal letter to Éomer is inspired by the letter Sam received from the King of Gondor in the unpublished epilogue to_ Return of the King _. You can find it in the ninth volume of_ TheHistory of Middle-Earth _._

 _Some of you have waited very long for this; I am sorry for that, and I am even more sorry for pulling a George Martin (the delay could not be helped; but the endless estimates was just me being stubbornly and repeatedly wrong). There is a complete draft now (although rough in some parts), so if you are hesitant after such a huge publication gap, you need not worry about the story going unfinished._ None of the Usual Inducements _will consist of 22 chapters, a prologue and an epilogue. Because of the long wait and the relative brevity of the first chapters, you can expect multiple updates over the next two weeks._

 _To whoever is still with me: thank you for your patience, and especial thanks to the ladies of the Garden of Ithilien for their comments and suggestions on an earlier draft._


	3. The Interchange of News

**The Interchange of News**

Éomer-King had not fully appreciated until now that Gondor was far away and that this was a blasted inconvenience. He had always found the journey long and somewhat tiresome, to be sure, but he thought his experiences had been coloured by impatience: to reach the Pelennor on time to break the siege, and to see his uncle properly laid to rest in the lands of his forefathers. This time he had been determined to enjoy the journey and the freedom of being on the road, but everything was conspiring against him.

And by everything he meant the weather.

They had crossed the border into Anórien five days ago, after getting caught in an autumn storm in the Eastfold that had made him feel like he would never be dry again. The sensation was compounded by the fact that his squire Aldor, in a remarkable display of disregard for his health and safety, had left his King's boots out all night in the rain. Then his tent had started leaking as well, and thus he spent the next two days cold and silently miserable. Yet ever since they had passed the Drúadan forest and turned south, they had been trapped in a relentless summer. Hot, humid, with air so heavy and saturated that it felt as if he were covered in a blanket that he could not shake. Earlier today a breeze had seemed to pick up from the south, but it had hurried past as they came over the top of a hill and thoughtlessly chased away the last of the clouds, leaving them at the mercy of the afternoon sun.

Éomer surreptitiously wiped some sweat off his brow and grimaced. He was out of practice; getting too soft on his throne at Meduseld, with Alodie's famous mead and stew whenever he wished it, and although he had tried to keep up his form, he noticed an unfamiliar stiffness in his legs, and had been mortified to discover a saddle-sore last night. And now this unpardonable heat. He reached for his waterskin and drank the last of what they had collected from an icy-cold spring bubbling near the foot of the White Mountains, but now it was too tepid and stale to quench his thirst. His boots were still wet as well. He adjusted his feet in the stirrups and resolved again not to mention any of his discomforts to Éothain. He had been so eager to go and he did not think he could bear the sly taunts that would inevitably follow his complaints.

It was a necessary diplomatic visit, he had told his council, and they had agreed; and he wished to spend some time with his sister and the soon-to-be born youngest descendant of Eorl, and they had agreed, albeit more hesitantly. The Mark was at peace, but there had been rumours of skirmishes at Gondor's southern borders, and his advisors were protective of their young and impetuous King. At first they had tried to extract a promise from him not to ride into battle, which Éomer had done gladly – and then he had reminded them of the Oath of Eorl which obviously had to take precedent over any promise he could make his council. The promise discarded as "completely useless then", they had pored over old documents and ancestries to find a suitable successor, only to be told that Éomer had long made up his mind about that matter also. So, on his way east Éomer had made a stop at his former seat, Aldburg to confer with Elfhelm, whom he had named Marshal of the Eastmark. His Uncle's erstwhile lieutenant had been equally solicitous.

"Lord, if you intend to fight alongside the King of Gondor once more…"

Éomer had been staring into the fire, flames and shadows taking the form of past victories, a horse galloping downhill in the light of the red dawn, a promise of more glory and battle to come. "I would follow him wherever he goes. Yes, I will fight."

Elfhelm had sighed and chosen to yield rather than argue, as a man who had long learned to pick his battles, as the man (Éomer thought rather grimly) who had in secret let Éowyn join his éored, forswearing them both. His marshal was not unfamiliar with the lure and thrills of war, and the bloodlust that ran in the veins of the descendants of Eorl, although Elfhelm was older now, red hair streaked with grey, and he had, as he said himself, seen too much of death. "You will need to appoint an heir and underking to rule in your absence," Elfhelm said finally.

"I am aware of it."

"I just hope you will be cautious, Éomer."

Éomer tore his eyes away from the blazing logs. "I chose you, Elfhelm. I made my wishes in this matter known to the council before I left Edoras. In case I do not return, you will rule until Éowyn's children come of age. I will announce this in front of witnesses tonight."

His Marshal had appeared taken aback, but acquiesced nonetheless. "I am honoured by your trust, my lord."

"It is equal amounts burden as it is honour, Elfhelm, which you know as well as I."

Elfhelm nodded and poured himself a glass of wine without offering any to his king. Perhaps he was more vexed by the appointment than he let on. "Éomer, may I speak frankly? As your former mentor and teacher; and aye, your loyal subject too?"

Although he dreaded the look in Elfhelm's eyes, such a request could not be denied in good grace. "Of course."

"I wonder why you have not taken steps to find a wife."

Growling with impatience, Éomer had stood up to look out the window, although there was nothing to see but grey as an overcast and cloudy day made way for a cool and rainy evening. "I have not had time to give it any serious thought."

"Impossible," said Elfhelm behind him. "Your advisors have been harassing you about this matter almost since our victory at the Black Gate. For some reason you've decided to fight against it and I cannot see why you would. You have always appreciated women just fine; both in and outside of your bedchamber. You relied on Éowyn and trusted her to rule by your side. I understand a man of your age may be reluctant to be tied down, but let's be reasonable. You are King. You are already tied down, and not exactly unaware of it. I have not seen you take any lovers since the war."

"I am not a fool." He had no wish to become entangled in the web of gossip and drama that would inevitably follow a king too careless with his affections. Not to mention leave a trail of natural children instead of legitimate heirs; a sure way to threaten his line before it had even begun.

"No, but you have certainly been more headstrong and obstinate than usual."

"I am aware of my duties. I know I owe Rohan an heir, and a queen. It will be done when the time is right."

"You sound rather self-pitying. Marriage does not have to be a great hardship. Indeed I find there are certain perks…"

He essayed a glance over his shoulder. "I know about the perks."

" Not just in the bedroom. I know, I know, you are young. Then just choose a wench and get to it," said Elfhelm with a grin, and suddenly Eomer was a lad in front of his captain again. "It is your duty indeed, and not an unpleasant one."

"… I think I am starting to prefer my council's gentle manipulations."

"Fine, if you prefer to be manipulated, it shall be done."

For the rest of the evening, Elfhem's youngest daughter, Elfhild, had been thrown in his way under various suspicious circumstances, blushing prettily and presenting an altogether fine prospect, but he could not forget that she had once been called to account for setting a boy's hair on fire when they were children at Edoras. He suspected the girl might hide a vindictive nature under that demure demeanour.

He allowed his thoughts to momentarily linger on the memory of the girl's figure, while absentmindedly untangling a knot in Firefoot's mane. Then he shook himself out of the reverie. He had no wish to explain his unwillingness to marry to Elfhelm or anyone. At first he had just felt he had too much to care about now – the Riddermark, its people, its allies - and there was no room in his heart for any other on top of that. So far, so sensible, albeit (as Éowyn had said) a tad melodramatic. But how could he tell Elfhelm that it had so quickly become a habit and a sport to turn away from ambitious fathers and to be displeased with all efforts to woo him? That, during the long winter when he began feeling some pangs of loneliness and realised how cold and empty Meduseld could be without a Lady of the Hall, it had felt like a challenge: how long could he hold out before he would give in? And, even worse, somehow he suspected he rather enjoyed the attention. When he would eventually make his choice, all the other young ladies who had been placed so temptingly within his reach would be off-limits forever; a tragic loss indeed. There was no way he could confess to those particular moral failings. He would not just be headstrong and obstinate in his marshal's eyes, but frivolous too.

So he had made a half-hearted promise to give the matter his full attention, and had left Aldburg in a bit more of a hurry than he had planned and was entirely wise considering the predicted storms. Elfhild had worn daises in her hair and had pouted a rather fetching farewell, yet it mattered not. The temptation was too easy to resist.

The sun grew hotter still, and his éored was close to the Pelennor now, lush forest changing to groves of oak and elm and then to open pastures, traced with huts and the tracks of cowherds. Almost twenty moons ago they had ridden here through an everlasting dusk, surrounded by burning homesteads and decay, to lift the siege that threatened the great stone City of Kings. His Uncle had been with him, and his sister, too, although he never knew it... So grim as it had seemed then, so beautiful was it now, after two summers of unprecedented bounty, and a fairer promise still in the air.

Just ahead Éomer noticed one of his men break off from the column and ride towards him. "Lord, your outriders have sighted a Gondorian party. They are carrying the standard of the Silver Swan of Dol Amroth."

Imrahil! At his command, his riders picked up their pace and started down the hill, and soon Éomer could make out the blue and silver of Swan Knights in the distance. They were a small party, no more than two-dozen, on bay horses and appearing unarmed. Éothain, the Captain of his guard, squinted. "It is Prince Erchirion, I think."

He nodded, having already recognised Imrahil's second son, Erchirion, who had fast become a great ally and even better friend. Éomer gave a signal and his riders dropped back to a trot, then a walk, while Éomer rode ahead with Éothain, Leof, his standard-bearer, and finally his squire, Aldor, not quite so beardless anymore but long from growing into his name. Erchirion and two of his knights gave spurs to their horses and separated from the main party, and at last they met at the foot of the hill.

"Welcome, Éomer King, to Gondor." Erchirion dismounted first, grinning. "I am here on behalf of King Elessar to escort you to Emyn Arnen. He regrets very much that he was not able to meet you himself, and that with all the happenings in the land only a lowly second son could be spared to greet our greatest ally, but he was hopeful you would not hold this breach of protocol against him.

"Indeed I do not. My friend, I am very glad to see you," said Éomer, dismounting in turn and pulling the middle Prince of Dol Amroth in an embrace.

"And I you. It has been too long. You look well! How fares Rohan?"

"Well indeed! And Gondor?"

"As you see. Far too warm, but prosperous."

Aldor arrived with a flask of rose-mead, which was traded for Erchirion's skin of wine, a gesture of trust and friendship from Belfalas that Éomer was now well acquainted with. As he sipped the drink, Éomer spoke: "Much as I am happy to see you, I did not realise I needed an escort to visit my sister at all."

"Ah yes. Escort was perhaps the wrong term. I simply thought it would be prudent to meet you before…," Erchirion paused and looked somewhat off-balance. "Perhaps we ought to sit down."

He narrowed his eyes. "I prefer to receive bad news standing up," and with a sword in hand, he added in his head. He did not voice it, though, and quashed the impulse to reach for the hilt.

"Of course," said Erchirion. "Of course. I did not intend to alarm you." He drank and wiped his lips, then passed the flask back to Aldor. "Éomer, your sister went into labour a week ago."

A chill seemed to settle around his spine in spite of the heat. "She was not due until the next full moon."

"Indeed, but the babe decided to arrive early, as they sometimes do. Unfortunately in his impatience he had failed to turn, and the birth was long and heavy." Éomer started and Erchirion put a hand on his arm "Let me assure you that both Éowyn and the child are well. Your sister, however, was weakened from blood loss and is still bedridden."

This was not his definition of well at all. "Éowyn is hurt?" he asked, a little louder than he intended.

"Hurt, but healing."

His sister, in a sickbed, again. The same sister who up until two years ago, before she came to this accursed country, had not been unwell a day in her life. He should never have let her move here. "I must see her."

"Éomer, she has the best healers in Gondor tending to her. For a breech birth it was rather an easy one, and she should have no problem conceiving and carrying more sons to term in due course. No permanent damage has been done."

"No _permanent_ damage?!"

"Aye, Éomer, she did give birth. I am told it tends to have an impact."

"Hm." Éomer felt slightly queasy, as he always did, just a little, when contemplating human birthing. Erchirion on the other hand looked calm and unshaken. Then again, it was not his sister.

"A son. Éowyn has a son," he said after a while.

"Yes. He is named Elboron, after Faramir's late brother."

That pleased him. "A fine warrior. A good name." He paced back and forth. "She is well. You swear that she is well?"

"The last news we received was very positive. Both Faramir and Éowyn look forward to receiving you immensely."

"I should see her. I should see her now."

"You will see her very soon, and the child too." Erchirion gestured expansively. "Emyn Arnen is still a full day's ride away and the weather has been unruly lately, making it dangerous to cross the river at night. We bring fresh supplies, and two deer we managed to bring down on the way. There is a copse of wood not far from here, nearby a stream, that would make an excellent campsite. Will you and your men join us?"

Torn and worried, Éomer looked over to Éothain, then Aldor. The boy looked tired, and eager. They were all hot, thirsty and had not had fresh game for some days. Somewhere nearby his sister was ailing in bed… but what could he do? Childbirth was a battle he knew nothing about, and besides, it seemed to have been fought and done. Éomer sighed and then clasped Erchirion's shoulder. "We will join you."

He sensed rather than heard a sigh of relief from his men.

Erchirion had not exaggerated; the meadow they were led to was beautiful and happily shaded by tall trees. Éomer saw now that the party from Dol Amroth was even smaller than he had first estimated, and eight of the horses were pack animals, loaded with fruits and water, bread scented with nutmeg and saffron, fresh cheeses and salted fish. His men went off to tether and groom the horses, and prepare the camp, while he went off to bathe Firefoot and himself in the stream. The horse also appeared weary, and almost stumbled over his legs in his haste to get to the waterside.

"You and I, we have both been too lax this year, haven't we?" he muttered to the stallion.

At sundown, cooking fires were lit and with some cheers and applause the deer were roasted on the spit, and the meat distributed among the men. His Eorlingas mixed easily with the Swan Knights; some knew the foreigners from the Pelennor and Cormallen, and some knew them by reputation alone, but it made the reunion no less joyful. Éomer joined Erchirion, who was breaking bread with Aldor and his father, Elric, son of Erkenbrand.

"Are you riding on to Emyn Arnen also, my lord?" asked the lad.

"Alas, not yet," said Erchirion. "My father needs me in the city. But we are expecting to be there some days before the King and Queen arrive with their retinue, and hopefully spend some time with just the family before the madness begins."

"Is it not a bit much to ask Faramir to host this first Great Council of Gondor while his new home is barely finished and his wife has just given birth? Seems you Stonelanders have a cruel sense of timing," said Éothain.

"Nonsense," said Erchirion. "We all agree it will make an excellent housewarming party. How about you, Éomer? Are you looking forward to some time off before our great feat of diplomacy?"

"Indeed," said Éomer, hoping it did not come out quite as long-suffering as he felt it.

"All of us are, after the harvest," said Éothain. "Although I suspect Éomer King is mostly happy to be away from the constant attentions of certain ladies."

"Ah," Erchirion looked sympathetic. "It can indeed be a burden to be young, rich and handsome."

"Thank you."

Erchirion leaned back with a grin. "If you wish to flee such attentions, I fear you came to the wrong place. Gondor currently is overflowing with excessively charming and unfortunately unattached ladies. For obvious reasons."

"Oh how so?" asked Aldor, sounding keen. The boy had developed a soft spot for the dark-haired Gondorian beauties since he had joined Théoden King's funeral escort. One, Éomer suspected, in particular, although that could only lead to heartbreak for his young squire.

"Many of their prospects died in the war," said Éomer, a little more brusquely than he intended, "just like in the Riddermark."

"Ah yes, poor lasses. Do not worry, Aldor, I am sure you shall be quite safe," said Éothain. "There are still too many actual war heroes for them to salivate over to give you the time of day. Just like in the Riddermark."

"I fought at Helm's Deep," said Aldor with a trace of pique. "It is not my fault that my grandfather thought I was too young to ride to Gondor."

"Every snot-nosed pimpled stable boy says they were at the Battle of Helm's Deep," said Éothain, punching the boy in the arm. The boy tried to strike back but Éothain was too fast for him. "No matter, lad. Get some southern blood on your hands during the next campaign; that'll get their attention."

Erchirion looked on pensively. "I fear it will come to that, and sooner than we may be ready."

"We have heard some disquieting rumours," said Éomer. "Armies that escaped south and east when the Dark Tower fell, testing the borders of Gondor, hoping to strike before the king is comfortably settled on his throne."

"Aye, some rumours, and some truths as well," said Erchirion. "Faramir and Éowyn will be able to tell you more. As for the ladies… have some sympathy. After all, it is a truth generally acknowledged that every young warrior who has recently inherited a kingdom must be in want of a wife."

"Spare me," said Éomer. "I have heard the speech."

"It makes people nervous when there is no heir. As a Gondorian, I would know. We spent hundreds of years overwrought and in shambles because we thought we lost ours."

"My advisors hoped I would engage myself this summer before coming here. It would not have been enough, anyway. I might have had a bride, but what then?"

"You are lucky Amrothos is not here. He would have no qualms detailing every step for you." Before he could make a terse response, Erchirion had already continued: "Éomer, forget about the heir for a moment. Before we ride to war, would it not be better to have a queen who can represent you in your absence?"

"That would depend on the queen," muttered Éomer.

"From what I gather you have plenty of options," said Erchirion.

The combination of wine and weariness made him petty. "Where do you get off lecturing me on this topic, anyway? You are unwed, and you are older than I."

"Fair point," said Erchirion and held up his hands. "Do not worry, I will not interrogate you further. The night is young, and I am happy to see you are well."

"As am I." He poured half his wine in Erchirion's empty cup as a peace offering, and at his gesture Aldor scurried off to find more. "How are your brothers?"

"Elphir and Galweth had their third child last month; another boy. Amrothos applauds this enthusiastic perpetuation of the line of Princes, of course, as he hopes for an easy and early retirement."

"He told me as much in his letter. Your father sent him to Pelargir?"

"Yes. A respite for all in the city, and Amrothos really does know shipbuilding. He is complaining about the lack of facilities, but doing well."

"Hm, I am sure. And how is your sister?"

"Lothíriel? She is always thriving," and with a smile Erchirion added: "She is fairer and unrulier every time I see her."

Éothain met Éomer's eyes with a crooked grin. "That sounds like a dangerous combination."

Éomer privately agreed.

* * *

 _Thank you very much for the reviews; they're always appreciated; and an especial thanks to those readers I cannot PM: anthi35, catherine10, Denise and Guest! We'll see Lothi soon, I promise. Thank you for sticking around! It's great to see you're still here._

 _A big hug also to the ladies of the GoI for their support and comments on the draft._


	4. When Good People Get Together

**When Good People Get Together**

The White Lady of Rohan, now the White Lady of Ithilien, with her golden hair, bloodless lips and her skin pale even against the stark white sheets, looked like a picture, almost if she had arranged it just so. Perhaps she had. For all her wild ways, his sister was not above her small vanities. Éomer sat down on the bench beside her bed, and reached for her hand. It was all so close to the image that still haunted his dreams, and yet not at all: there were hints of pink in her cheeks and laughter on her lips, and her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Her hand twitched almost imperceptibly when he took it, but he had already known she was pretending. He had, after all, seen her do it many times before, after bouts of nightly mischief in Aldburg, and later, when they were not so little anymore, when feigning sleep seemed preferable to discussing the cause of another restless night. She had never managed to fool him.

"We have to stop meeting like this. Éowyn."

The smile widened, but she did not open her eyes. "You took your time getting here. Faramir was certain you would come galloping up in the middle of the night," she murmured.

"That was my first impulse," he admitted. "Erchirion managed to dissuade me."

"Impressive. Then again, Imrahil's offspring never fails to surprise." At last she opened her eyes, and to his relief they were tired but alight with joy. She turned to him and studied his face. "You look well, brother. Tall."

"I've always been tall."

"I remember you shorter." Another smile. The shrew loved teasing him; she always had.

"You look awful," he said, which earned him a glare. "A fair and glamorous awful," he clarified.

"Well, I would like to see how you would look after pushing a horseshoe out your nostril. That is much what childbirth is like, in case you were curious."

Éomer hastened to change the direction of the conversation. "Your husband showed me some of the house. It is as beautiful as you wrote in your letters, Éowyn. I find it hard to believe there was just a ruin here a year ago."

"I am still marveling we managed to get so much done in such a short time," said Éowyn.

Éomer looked around the room, taking in the sparse wooden furniture, the walls stained in muted pastels and the colourful tiles on the floor. So different from the imposing opulence of Minas Tirith, and the sombre grandeur of the Meduseld, and yet it seemed to suit the surroundings, and, more importantly, his sister. The air was warm, and soft forest sounds drifted in through the open window: the scurrying and buzzing of insects, the call of a lone cuckoo bird. "Very serene," he praised. "It seems we are days away from Minas Tirith."

"Not so far at all. You can see the Citadel from the guard tower, on a clear day," said Éowyn.

"Keeping an eye on the enemy, hm? In case they decide to undertake a side-saddle crusade?"

"Ha ha." Her face tightened for a moment, and she turned to rearrange her pillows so that they were supporting her back.

"Are you still in pain?"

"Some. I am mostly tired."

"I don't like it," he muttered, more to himself.

"Neither did I," said Éowyn with an impish grin. "But the results are spectacular."

A soft knock on the door announced the presence of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor, a man with far too many impressive titles and feats to his name to be carrying a tray of fruits, bread, butter and iced sangaree, although he obviously did not think so.

"I hope I do not intrude. I thought you both could do with some refreshments."

"Oh yes, thank you," his sister struggled to sit up a little. "Please, Faramir, stay and join us."

Éomer shifted in his seat. "You had the forethought to bring three glasses anyway," he said a little tersely. He had not quite forgiven Faramir for bending to his sister's wishes and not sending out a messenger to find him at the first signs of trouble.

Faramir pulled out a small wooden table and set out his bounty, pouring the sangaree over the ice, and slicing the oranges with a little silver knife. The smell of citrus mingled with fresh-baked bread and Éomer felt himself relenting.

"I had the same sent down to your riders," said Faramir. "They decided to raise the encampment near the riverbank instead of beside the barracks. I suppose it was hard to resist the temptation of the water."

Éomer gave an assent; it would have been his choice as well, even if it were a less convenient distance to the manor house.

"I also sent down casks of ale and water, and some other necessary supplies in case you were short after the journey. All are of course welcome to take their dinner in the Hall with us. My Rangers do so too."

"We thank you." It was customary in Rohan, but Éomer had not been sure about the practice in Gondor.

"We were able to find a space in our stables for all the horses that are not needed at the camp. It is a little inconvenient and cramped, and we are building larger stables just outside the eastern walls, but it is not safe at the moment. My men discovered orc tracks just a mile from there, no more than a week old."

Éomer nearly choked on his sangaree. "Orcs!"

"Yes," Faramir offered him a plate of cakes and oranges, which Éomer took without thinking, still reeling from the news. "There is no need for alarm, though. This was the first sighting in months, and there has been no mischief since the spring. We believe they are just crossing the forests to flee south, although for what purpose we cannot be certain. Still, best to post some extra guards for the next few nights."

"There are orcs yet in Gondor! And so close to Emyn Arnen."

"Why, yes," said Faramir, sounding a little surprised at his horror. "We are after all but a two days' ride from Minas Morgul, which used to be their stronghold."

"And you knew this when you decided to build a house here of all places?"

"Elessar did not assign me to Ithilien for some early retirement. Your sister and I have taken it to task to cleanse these lands…"

"Hold on," spoke Éomer with menacing emphasis. "My little sister is actually involved in this scheme of yours?"

"Why yes", said Faramir again, unshaken or oblivious to the threat behind the words. "We laid the plans together during the summer at Edoras. Our archers are the finest in Middle-Earth, but Éowyn introduced some techniques for shooting from horseback that have proved invaluable. The shortbow used by your people, for example, with the strange curve, has incredible speed and reach for a weapon so light and easy to wield. Of course, the increased tension on the string means it is less suited for covert attacks, but we are no longer so reliant on the element of surprise…"

Éomer had stopped listening. The man was so wordy, one had to wonder it did not drive Éowyn mad sometimes. His eyes sought out his sister's instead, and the guilt was written all over her face. Good. "You never mentioned this in any of your letters. With your talk of gardening."

"I knew you would react this way."

"How should I react?" Éomer lashed out. "You said you were done with this sort of thing."

"I never said that."

"You certainly implied it."

"I said I was done seeking glory at all costs. That is not the same as never touching a sword again."

"I distinctly remember you promise that you will no longer put yourself in deliberate danger."

"And I am not! This is so like you, Éomer! Grumbling and kicking up a fuss while there is absolutely no need. Emyn Arnen is as secure as any place can be and Faramir's Rangers, who far outnumber any orc party we have managed to intercept so far, are on constant guard."

"If I had known 'riding' meant 'riding out into battle'… Éowyn, are you insane?"

"Don't exaggerate. I only rode with Faramir once, and I was not even perfectly sure I was with child then."

"You were not _perfectly_ sure?" Éomer thundered. "No wonder the babe decided to come early. It must have been in constant terror for his life in there. Clever boy. If only it had the wit to turn as well there might still be some hope for you all."

When Faramir spoke up, it was with infuriating calm: "Actually, breech births happen for no reason anyone can discern. It has nothing to do with a baby's wits, or lack thereof. Although breech births have been associated with …"

"Faramir, this is not the time for lectures, and Éomer, stop blustering" came his sister's sharp voice. "You knew very well I was not going to waste my talents…" Talents, ha! One lucky stroke at a legendary enemy and they thought they were Béma's gift to warfare. "… and that Gondor has as many challenges ahead of it as the Mark. Neither of us can help that you have apparently been living in a state of denial since midwinter."

"Éowyn, there are many other ways to serve your country. Safer ways."

He saw his own stubborn determination reflected back at him in his sister's expression. "You have always been a hypocrite, Éomer. Anyway, I have already said I will not ride needlessly into battle. All I do is provide Faramir with some assistance in the training of his men."

"That is all you do?"

"That is mostly all I do," said Éowyn after a moment's pause.

"You… " She-devil? Headstrong, intractable mule? Same old bloody Éowyn? He threw up his hands in a helpless gesture, took a deep breath and reined his temper under control. "Fine. I can recognise a lost cause when I see one. Faramir, she is your problem and I wish you the best of luck. Meanwhile, you better make sure that the next of your brood knows how to find his way out!"

Faramir started murmuring something under his breath, but with one hiss from Éowyn he ceased and cast a contrite look around the room.

"Speaking of the brood, where is he? When can I meet my nephew?" His nephew. His sister-son. Technically, little Elboron was his heir as well as Faramir's.

"Lothíriel has him out in the rose garden," said Faramir, sitting down on the bed beside Éowyn.

"Lothíriel?"

"Yes."

"Princess Lothíriel?"

"Do we know another Lothíriel?"

Éomer furrowed his brow. "Are you sure that is safe?"

"Ha! My cousin may not be much of a warrior, but I have no trouble entrusting her with my son in my own grounds."

"Hm." The problem with men such as Faramir is that they always saw the good in people and were therefore entirely too trusting.

"I expect they will be back any minute, but I can have a servant fetch them if you wish," said Faramir.

"Don't trouble yourself. I am sure I can find her myself." He made to get up. "Actually, I think I shall go see her now."

Éowyn looked at him with interest. "Her, huh? You seem very eager, brother."

He realised his slip and pondered its implications. Was he eager to see Lothíriel? Perhaps. Curious, certainly. After what Erchirion had said yesterday, Éomer was intrigued to witness for himself what had become of the Princess of Dol Amroth. "Apparently, she is holding my nephew hostage."

"Hm. I suppose we can bend the rules just this once," said Faramir, with a wink at Éowyn.

"There are rules?"

"Just a few," said Faramir. "This is ah, a rather recent rule we were forced to introduce. Well, not a rule per se. We simply discourage Lothíriel and her suitors from meeting in the rose garden."

It took a moment to process the sentence. "Lothíriel has suitors?"

Éowyn tapped her glass impatiently. "Of course she has suitors, brother. She has just come of age, is extremely well connected and her father has promised a dowry that matches the worth of the entire Eastfold."

"I see. And you fear indiscretions?" Remembering Lothíriel's naïve flirtatious ways, he thought it would probably be in her family's best interest to keep her firmly under lock and key until her wedding day, but he had found Imrahil was remarkably permissive with all his children.

"Not indiscretions," said Faramir with a smile. "My cousin so far has kept all pretenders well under control. However, some of the more romantic souls got into the habit of picking flowers to adorn her hair. Because of her name, of course. Lothíriel. Flower-garlanded maiden."

Éomer felt himself sink back into his seat, and leaned against the cushions, horrified. "I hope you are jesting."

"Not in the least," his sister's tone was clipped. "Faramir thought it was charming, and I was prepared to close my eyes to these Gondorian excesses, until some weeks ago they discovered our _êlmeril_. _Steorra rōses_ ," she translated in Rohirric.

"They are a rare, beautiful bloom of a soft grey," clarified Faramir. "Legolas brought them from Eryn Lasgalen. They only bloom every three years."

Éowyn nodded. "Anyway, it was agreed that the roses matched her eyes, and thus all ended up in Lothíriel's hair within less than a week."

"That's awful," said Éomer, in an attempt at sobriety.

"Yes. Éowyn thought so too."

"That is probably the single most horrible thing I have heard since we were told an army of ten thousand orcs was marching on Helm's Deep."

Faramir piled up their plates with an exaggerated sigh. "It has to be said: the Rohirrim are a great people, but they understand nothing of courtly love. When I was wooing Éowyn, all she kept asking me was to speak plain language."

"And rightly so," said Éomer with some satisfaction. "Such niceties would be highly improper until after the official betrothal; and by that time you will find them wholly unnecessary."

"That sounds very convenient," said Faramir, with a small smile.

"Certainly. All wooing needs involve is a simple yes/no question, and perhaps a well-phrased compliment or two to create the ideal circumstances."

"My brother, of course, is an expert on these matters," demurred Éowyn.

Faramir nodded gravely. "He would have been a great ally during those early days. He could at least have warned me the Rohirrim only bring flowers to their dead."

"Oh yes, I remember that. I thought the Healers had given up on me after all, and simply forgotten to inform me of my impending doom."

Éomer grinned to himself imagining his sister's exasperation at Faramir's fanciful and pointless attempts at seduction. Then he noticed a sly smile on his sister's face, and a twinkle in Faramir's eye, and he suddenly wondered if Faramir had not managed to woo Éowyn after all, and perhaps in much plainer language than was proper. Every word and look that passed between them betrayed such a deep and easy connection… and that baby had come awfully soon.

He put the thought out his mind; some questions best remained unasked.

He took Éowyn's empty glass from her at her behest and placed it back on the table, while she wove her fingers through Faramir's. He could read the signs and resolved to give the couple some privacy. It cost him, though. His sister had been right. He missed her dreadfully. And seeing her here now brought home to him that he was no longer her first confidant, no longer the one who knew most of her secrets, and in a strange and twisted way he felt a little jealous. Overjoyed for the pair of them, but jealous nonetheless. There had been some tensions between the new husband and wife during their first winter together, and at one point he had half-expected Éowyn to come riding up in the dead of night, declaring Gondor silly and returning to Edoras for good. During a particularly long and lonely day he had even hoped for it. Mentally he added it to his list of moral failings.

"I will go find my nephew," he said, getting to his feet. "It is getting cooler, and it seems too fine a day not to explore the gardens. And I promise there will no wooing. Especially not of that sort," he said before he shut the door behind him.

* * *

 _Author's Notes: Sangaree is a mediaeval version of sangria, which seemed a suitable drink for my very Mediterranean Gondor. Back in the day, people would collect and cut ice from mountains and frozen lakes and keep it underground in specially designed and well-insulated icehouses. Definitely a luxury product, though, but we all know Faramir is generous and might well share with his men on occasion. Thanks for the reviews, everyone, especially also anthi35 and LazyJellyBean. I always love reading all your comments. And yes, I am being a reunion-tease, but I hope you enjoyed Éowyn and Faramir, and now the pieces are set and up next…_


	5. First Effects of Strong Surprise

**The First Effects of Strong Surprise**

Éomer dismissed Éothain with some vague instructions for his men at the encampment. Although the estate was large, indeed much larger than he had been expecting, Éowyn and Faramir were to host a lot of guests over the next week, and not all could be accommodated in the main house. Éomer himself had offered to camp out also, but Éowyn had quickly disabused him of that "ridiculous notion", and he had been directed to quarters near her own. Aldor, Éothain and the rest of his guard were to stay in the house as well, but for now he was glad to be rid of his faithful shadows. He did not wish to crowd Lothíriel, although why he could not say. It was not as if the girl were some skittish mare.

Yet there was no denying that his history with the Princess of Dol Amroth was complicated. If, of course, one could stretch the definition of complicated to include absolutely terrible. Most of their encounters last year had ended in thoroughly undignified shouting matches. Lothíriel, irreverent, fearless in all the worst possible ways, and seemingly having no other experience but to be universally adored, had a knack for getting under his skin. He had possibly been a little less than gentlemanly also, but –in his defense- her crimes against him were far more serious: she had deceived him, flaunted his commands and trespassed on his property. He let the lingering twinge of resentment rush through him and then told himself to let it be. It had been over a year ago, and he was resolved to make an effort to treat her with courtesy this time. She was, after all, Imrahil's daughter, the sister of some of his closest friends, and, as Queen Arwen's foremost maiden of honour, an important member of the Gondorian court in her own right.

He made his way through the gardens, taking in the fragrant air and the languorous humidity, turning past olive and almond trees, and a labyrinth of fair foreign flowers and shrubs. A clear stream murmured over a bed of rocks and looped around the orangery, where fast-climbing evergreen plants were already making their way up the walls. He passed by a small wooden bridge leading to a chain of islands overgrown with different herbs, connected only by stepping-stones and water lilies, wondering if he had already managed to get himself lost. And then, finally, he saw her, in a silver summer gown, black curls gathered into a single long braid down her side. She sat with her back towards him, humming a soft song, perhaps in elvish but the words were too low for him to make out. He stood and observed her for a while, reveling in this little unexpected picture of beauty and serenity. Then he realised that his staring, if discovered, might well be construed as sinister and moved closer.

She must have heard his approach because she essayed a quick glance over her shoulder and got to her feet. He now recognized a small bundle in her arms, a bundle that must be Elboron, who was currently heir to the Stewardship of Gondor and the Riddermark, and appeared fast asleep. With a deft gesture Lothíriel paused him in his tracks, raised a finger to her lip, and then curtsied, the whole set of movements performed with an artless elegance despite the newborn in her arms. Then she smiled at him, warm and genuine, although still with that suppressed mirth in her eyes that made him suspect she'd burst out in mocking laughter as soon as he would turn his back.

Perhaps he was paranoid.

He adjusted his strides and walked towards her as quietly as he would while sneaking up on an enemy in the field. At last he stood before her, and as she rose from her curtsy, his eyes involuntarily slid to her breasts, which were straining ever so slightly against the fabric. "You have grown!" he marvelled in a soft voice before he could stop himself.

She cocked an eyebrow, and then turned to place the babe in a basket beside her. "A whole half inch," she said when she had gently tucked him in. "I did not think it very noticeable myself."

It was of course not what he had meant – he judged Lothíriel was still almost a head shorter than his sister – but nevertheless he took the escape gladly, casting around in his head for something appropriate to say. "You are mistaken. It is very becoming."

It seemed he had passed, because her features softened and she held out her hand. "Welcome to Emyn Arnen, my lord. I hope you had a pleasant journey?"

Remembering the rain, the sun, and the still tender saddle-sore, he took a moment to consider his answer. "Not bad." And then: "It is uncommonly hot for the time of year."

Lothíriel laughed. "Not to me. Our summers in Dol Amroth can be much hotter even than this, although the sea brings plenty of rain, too."

"We had some rain. Back in Rohan. There was nothing but sun on the road. Except when we were still in Rohan. There was a lot of rain there," he ended lamely, then cursed inwardly. As ever since their first unfortunate meeting, conversing with Lothíriel left him awkward, tongue-tied and what was this sudden obsession with the weather, anyway?

"Indeed," she said, appearing amused. "Did Aldor ride with you, my lord? And Éothain? I have looked forward to seeing them. Are they well?"

"If you had come to greet us with your cousin and the rest of the household, you could have seen for yourself." Lovely. It had taken him exactly one minute before he was back to reprimanding her.

Lothíriel seemed unperturbed. "Ah well." She sat down besides the cradle and gently tapped the little babe's nose. "Someone had to take care of him, and Éowyn was resting. He was positively howling."

"Howling?" Éomer frowned, looking at the peaceful boy amidst the white chiffon blankets.

"Yes." She fixed her eyes on his and he was surprised at the severity in them. "You would cry too if you had fallen asleep at last and then your uncle thought it fun to announce his arrival by blowing a horn next to your bedroom window."

"We were still many yards away. Not next to his bedroom window."

"Such details hardly matter. It was the loudest thing I ever heard."

"It is tradition. Certainly your father does the same at his homecoming," Éomer defended himself.

"Regardless, the gesture was not appreciated." The babe made a little gurgle of malcontent in his sleep, then flailed its little fist about, as if to punctuate the statement.

Éomer stared at the child, intrigued to see what it would do next. "… That will not do for the heir of the Riddermark."

Lothíriel bent over the cradle, tucking the stray fist more securely between the blankets. "That's because little Elboron is the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor," she said, smiling down at the babe. "You should get your own, my lord."

Éomer laughed in spite of himself. Whatever else might have changed, time had done nothing to make the Princess of Dol Amroth less self-assured – a thought that managed to be comforting and alarming at the same time. "I should hope the Steward of Gondor also does not find the sound of the horns of the Mark cause for tears."

"I suppose there is time," said the Princess primly. "Faramir appears to have grown out of it, at any rate."

The tension abated slightly, he sat down on the other side of the cradle, still marvelling over the tiny human that was Éowyn's son.

"Elboron, Prince of Ithilien," he said pensively. He studied the red little face, the tuft of black hair and the wrinkled brows. "He is not much to look at."

"I would not bring that up in front of your sister," said Lothíriel. "Also, he is singularly adorable, in my entirely biased opinion."

"I will trust your judgement," said Éomer. "I've been told women have an eye for this sort of thing." Lothíriel's eyebrows flew up, and he wondered what he had said wrong this time. "How come you are not at court?"

"I came to help Éowyn, of course. There has been so much to do lately with the arrival of Elboron, and your visit and the upcoming council, too."

"Are you not a little inexperienced to help with the babe?"

He noticed a fleeting look of annoyance in her eyes and he cursed himself again. Had he not vowed to behave more like a gentleman? And here he was, cross-examining her as if she were a prisoner of war. "Perhaps, but I am the only female kin Éowyn has in Gondor; not counting my aunt and my once again nursing sister-in-law in Dol Amroth. Besides, it is not that difficult to amuse a newborn, even for a young, _inexperienced_ woman." With a glint in her eye she continued: "That is not the part one needs a husband for."

He refused to rise to the bait and decided to change tactics. " To be sure, and he seems content enough. You must have a talent, Lothíriel."

He had learned last year that although insults and censure seemed to simply bounce off the Princess, compliments left her completely wrong-footed. He was right: the girl flushed and averted her face. "As I said, there is not much to it. And I often cared for my nephew during the war," she murmured.

The babe fussed in his sleep and let out a short yowl of displeasure. "These naps never last long, though… I suspect he is hungry, or about to grow tired of me. Why don't we return him to your sister? Here," she said, pushing the basket towards him. "You can carry him inside, if you wish."

"I might drop him," said Éomer a little flustered.

"Don't worry, my lord," said Lothíriel, eyes wide and innocent. "He is not very heavy."

Never before had Éomer known a woman who could so effortlessly needle him, but he guarded his face and made no comment. At her encouraging smile, he carefully lifted the babe from its bed. Elboron flailed in his arms and Lothíriel quickly got up behind him and showed him how to hold his arms so that he was cradling the baby's head. His skin grew hot where she touched him as she made some final adjustments, but she seemed completely unaware of the intimacy of the situation. He reminded himself that her whole family tended to be rather more free and easy with touches than was common in his own country: he had seen her be casually affectionate with her brothers many times.

"There, just so." The babe stared up at him with bright, blue eyes, a mild expression of shock on his face.

"What will I do if he cries?" said Éomer, a little worried still.

"Oh, he will cry," said Lothíriel. "Usually I just walk a bit faster."

For now, Elboron seemed happy enough to stare up at him with a puzzled frown. They made their way back to the house, while the sun disappeared behind the trees. As they crossed the courtyard, Elboron fell asleep again, and Éomer experienced a small thrill of triumph, which he could not help but voice. Predictably, Princess Lothíriel laughed to his face.

"Excellent work, my lord. You may be useful to us yet."

The urgency of their mission diminished, Lothíriel proposed a detour to show him where the stables were, and the icehouse and pantries that hid another entrance to the kitchens. "There are some secret passageways that lead out into the woods too," she added. "But I am not supposed to share that with foreigners." He turned to her preparing to be offended, when he saw she was pointing to a thicket of trees nearby and then looked up at him with twinkling eyes. He made a mental note never to entrust Lothíriel with state secrets.

"Did you stay in Minas Tirith all year?" he asked her as they climbed back up to the entrance of the gardens. "You were missed at Éowyn's wedding last winter."

"It was a busy time for Queen Arwen. She could not spare any of us."

"Your brother tells me you were very disappointed that you could not accompany them."

An airy gesture. "My brother exaggerates. After all, I have had the chance to visit Rohan before, and travel in winter seems less than appealing."

"Ah, but you have not yet seen the Westmark, and most agree it is fairest of all."

"Are you saying you have yet more fields and horses?"

The deliberate bored tone in her voice reminded him strongly of his friend Amrothos when he was in a pestering mood, and yet he could not help his piqued response: "You seemed to like it last year."

She rolled her eyes, so quickly that he was certain she did not mean for him to notice. "I was jesting, my lord. They are very fine fields and horses, and I am sure I would enjoy seeing them sometime."

"Perhaps." It had suddenly come back to him that the Westmark was struck hardest during the war with Saruman. It would be years before it would be as beautiful as it once was. They passed under an archway into what appeared to be an exercise yard, and Lothíriel pointed out the guardhouses and barracks on the other end. Behind he saw the first indication that construction of Emyn Arnen was still ongoing: the outhouses were nothing more than wooden frames and suggestions, surrounded by untilled ground.

"It seems strange to have our council here when so much work is still to be done," he said pensively. "Surely Minas Tirith is more convenient."

"Yes, although the choice seems obvious to me."

"Oh?"

"Well, it was King Elessar's choice, and he has a tendency to be enigmatic about why he does as he does. But it is not without sense," said Lothíriel. (Éomer recalled a time when Lothíriel had qualified Aragorn's decisions as _awful;_ no doubt the King of Gondor would be pleased to hear this more favourable assessment). "The city is still recovering from the siege, and many there are not quite so ready to leave the past and their enmity behind. The atmosphere is tense, and I have no doubt the Haradrim would feel it too. Negotiating trade deals on top of that graveyard; it would be too cruel. Emyn Arnen holds no bad blood or memories; and everything is young and beautiful. It is the perfect place to start anew." Then she laughed. "Or perhaps this is the King's way of punishing Faramir for subjecting us all to two-score pages of ancient poetry at the Midsummer feasts. What do I know?"

A little bit more than he would have given her credit for, thought Éomer. Aragorn could well have considered that. There would not be enough room to house all the delegations in the City itself, and while the Pelennor provided plenty of space for encampments, it would be impossible for the Haradrim and the Rohirrim to stay there together, within sight of the city, without remembering at every turn the blood spilled right under their feet. So, Aragorn intended a show of peace rather than a show of power… He cast a sideways glance at Lothíriel, and caught a sparkle in her eyes, suggesting her mind had already moved on to some new merriment. "You may be right," was all he said.

They entered the main house, where it was now pleasantly cool, and Lothíriel stopped in front of a stairway.

"Do you know your way, my lord? Your sister's chambers are just down this hall, to the right." She gestured to a colourful tapestry he vaguely recognised.

"Are you not joining us?" he asked. "It is only half an hour until sundown."

"The light lingers a bit longer here. We still have a full hour of daytime left."

"There will be supper soon."

Lothíriel bit her lip and ran her fingers through her hair. "I am not hungry," she said. "I would appreciate if you could tell Éowyn not to wait for me. And do not drop the babe."

And with a last polite curtsy and a less polite dash, the Princess disappeared back outside.

* * *

 _A/N Thank you for all the kind reviews; they mean a lot! Elvishkiwi – your words made me blush (and there may have been some prancing), thank you, so glad to hear you're enjoying it! I agree; the chapters are short and sometimes far between, and I am sorry for that. I'm writing my PhD dissertation at the moment and cannot spend as much time with Eomer and Lothiriel as I would like. Updates will be as regular as I can from now on, though (there will be some longer chapters, too). And to anonymous Guest: I understand your response to Lothi, and yes, she has some growing up to do. I thought it'd be unfair to have all the development happen off-screen though, so I hope you can bear with her; there are some lessons still ahead. Anthi35, I hope you liked the reunion!_

 _Special thanks to Lialathuveril and Adaneth for helping me think through some of the political matters in this story._


	6. Rather Merry Than Wise

**Rather Merry Than Wise**

In the distance Lothíriel could still make out the sprawling presence of Emyn Arnen, the manor itself and the orangery, and the expanse of the exercise yard. She was not supposed to leave the grounds unless there was someone to keep an eye on her, and thus she took care that she always remained in sight of the house.

It was, perhaps, a rather liberal interpretation of the rules, but perfectly defendable.

She darted into a thicket of cedars and cypresses, letting her hands brush over the trees and kicking at a pile of leaves that lay near her feet. Ithilien in autumn was like a dream, a dream of red and gold and warm spices, of quiet woods and the smell of the earth, but it was her cousin Faramir's dream, not hers. In this most beautiful province of Gondor, Lothíriel was at last starting to feel homesick. In Dol Amroth the rains would be coming in soon, torrential rains from the sea, and she longed to ride through the storms on the back of her beloved horse, Suldis. Her father had promised they would go home for Mettarë this year, departing perhaps as early as the end of Narbeleth if all went well at the council. It could not be soon enough for Lothíriel.

She ventured further into the forest until she came upon an old ficus tree. Its branches stretched invitingly low to the ground, and climbed high and wide into the sky, promising a view over the entire grounds, and perhaps to the elven colony beyond. She bit her lip. Should she? Could she? Of course she could, and that answered the other question too. It would be a fine place to gather her thoughts, and the reunion with the King of Rohan had left her in an odd mood - perhaps the man just still knew effortlessly how to bring out her rebellious side.

She shrugged out of her dress, as she had been longing to do all day, took off her bracelets, and finally untied the ribbon with the sapphire setting that lay around her neck. With a shrug of disapproval at her own behaviour she placed them, and her sandals, at the tree trunk, and then reached for the lowest hanging branch and hauled herself up. Testing her weight and balance she ran to the centre of the tree, rejoicing in the lightness of her feet, and she quickly found a path further up, staying close to the trunk and tugging on each hold before shifting her weight. She should try this more often! Lately there had been so little time for the tumbling and acrobatic stunts she used to love so well. About halfway up Lothíriel paused, swung her legs over one of the sturdier branches and surveyed her surroundings. Two chaffinches, startled by her presence, took off from a branch nearby and flitted through the trees in search of safer ground. Lothíriel watched as the sun slowly disappeared away into the west, tinting the sky orange to match the leaves, so that it seemed the whole of Ithilien was ablaze. Just when she had decided she had best return to the house before the light disappeared completely, she heard footsteps, and she darted away from the trunk to where the foliage was denser. A lone man dressed in the green-gray garb of Faramir's Rangers stopped at the foot of the tree. He looked around and lifted her dress off the forest floor, and then flashed a grin up to where she was hiding. Round green eyes, an easy smile and hair the colour of oak leaves in autumn.

"Rhanaer," she greeted him casually.

"Princess Lothíriel."

She could not help herself and deftly moved a few steps further up. "I said before that I would make a fine Ranger. I think I was right."

"You are an amateur," he called back. "Let me give you some valuable advice: if one aims to hide in a tree, it is best not to leave a pile of clothes and jewels at the trunk."

She sat down and let her legs curl around the branch. "I was not hiding. In fact, when one is a Princess, there is no point in climbing a tree if one is not hoping to get caught."

"Why do you wish to be caught? Or should I ask: by whom?"

"Perhaps I am just seeking attention."

He laughed again and his eyes softened. "Come down, Princess, and I will gladly give you my attention."

"You have shooting drills." Faramir liked to have archery practice at dusk, to accustom his Rangers' eyes to the gloom of the dark forests to the east.

"Right as always," said Rhanaer. "Yet someone has to save our Prince's noble cousin from herself. Who knows what else she may do, in her quest for attention?"

"Don't mock me," said Lothíriel, getting up and balancing on one leg. "I am rather good at this sort of thing, you know. Irredeemably so, as my aunt would say."

"Come down, Princess," said Rhanaer, laughter mixing with a hint of plea. He rested his hand against the ficus as if to steady it.

Lothíriel looked down at her bare feet and calves peeping out from under her shift and pantalettes, and flushed a little. "Very well, but you had better close your eyes."

The Ranger obeyed and Lothíriel started her slow descent down the tree. Coming to a seat on the lowest branch, she quickly plucked her gown out of Rhanaer's hands, and shrugged it on. "Keep your eyes closed and hand me that clasp," she commanded.

"I would not dare disobey," Rhanaer murmured. "But I can hardly do both."

Lothíriel smiled to herself. "You are a disappointment, soldier," she said, jumping down and reaching for the clasp herself. She straightened her gown, fixed her jewels, and contemplated pulling Rhanaer's hair while his eyes were still shut but thought the better of it. "You may look."

He opened his eyes, and she felt herself blush a little more as he took her in from head to toe, not even trying to conceal his appreciation. Then he offered his arm. "So, fair Princess, what mischief have you been up to today that you felt the need to hide?"

"I told you I was not hiding. I was admiring the view."

"And hoping for attention. I remember," said Rhanaer. "What more, you are missing supper, just as our friends from the north have arrived. An interesting conundrum."

"You promised to divert me. So tell me something amusing," said Lothíriel, unwilling to discuss either supper – her stomach was growling – or the arrival of the Rohirrim.

"I promised attention," said Rhanaer. "I thought you might need a confidant."

Lothíriel threw him one of Aunt Ivriniel's stern looks and he relented.

"Diverting tales, hm? Let's see. Durchon fell off his horse again today."

"That happens every day."

"That was not the amusing part. The oaf proceeded to declare the design of the horse faulty in essence, and insisted on some strange tale involving backs that curved downwards or sideways in the wrong directions. We convinced him to make at least three elaborate drawings before he caught on that we were mocking him."

"I am surprised he caught on at all." Durchon was a pale and awkward lad who was prodigiously untalented at everything except making up excuses. He was rather higher-born than most of the Rangers and aspired to a place in Faramir's White Company - a fruitless ambition for one like him. "Give me another one."

"To be sure. Remember how I told you that Hostor was late for stable duties all last week because he cannot get himself out of bed? And that Talion and Camaendir missed breakfast twice because of it? They sewed his blanket onto his bedroll while he was sleeping. I heard they did not cut him out until after dinner the next day, and I believe he has not dared to go to sleep since.

"Poor Hostor."

"Actually, so far the effects are encouraging. I have never seen the boy more alert," said Rhanaer.

"Do you have any more stories?" asked Lothíriel. "Neither was _very_ amusing."

"Mercy," said Rhanaer with a laugh. "Anyway, how can the trivial banalities of a soldier's life possibly hope to amuse a princess? I am sure you have something more interesting to tell me. After all, did you not reunite today with your former foe, the king of Rohan?"

Lothíriel felt a flicker of annoyance at Rhanaer's forward inquiry, even though she knew she herself was to blame. Last week, tired, nervous, and a little bawdy after a couple of glasses of wine, she had confessed to him some of what had happened last summer between Éomer and herself. It had been wrong; she knew that. Even though she had not gone into details, for her, the princess of Dol Amroth, to be expressing anything other than admiration and cordiality for the king of Rohan, who was the saviour of her people and Gondor's greatest ally, was a major blunder in etiquette. Her father would be most displeased if he ever heard of it.

Still, her troublesome moral compass compelled her to be more honest than she should: "I know King Éomer is a great warrior and leader, but his manner can be so brusque."

Rhanaer took her by the arm as they passed through a grove of chestnut trees. "I am not surprised," he said pensively. "I was able to observe King Éomer during the march on the Black Gate. He seems to me one of those men that have slept with a sword in hand ever since they were young; completely confident on the battlefield and wrong-footed in any other situation. He is a proud warrior, no doubt, and very competent, but grown cold, I fear, and dour, after so many years of fighting."

"Yet my brothers like him so much," Lothíriel mused out loud. "He cannot be altogether bad."

"Your brothers are warriors too, and so King Éomer is comfortable in their presence. He sees their virtues and so deigns to be respectful. But I fear he has had very little experience conversing with women who are his social equals – aside from his sister."

Lothíriel pondered those words. They seemed sensible, but on the other hand, Amrothos especially would surely soon have lost interest if there really was no more to Éomer than a cold, proud warrior. Her brother respected intelligence and good humour, and mostly chose his friends based on whether he found their company entertaining rather than their ability to bring down mumakil. She was brought out of her reverie when Rhanaer suddenly stopped, and made a shushing noise. Then she heard it too: footsteps, and the murmur of men's voices.

"I am not supposed to leave the grounds," she whispered.

He pulled her around a tree and with a deft motion positioned himself between her and the newcomers. Long yellow hair and green cloaks, the men were undoubtedly Rohirrim. Probably sent to fetch wood for the campfires. Lothíriel felt her heart speed up as they drew closer. The bushes and Rhanaer's cloak only half-concealed them, and Faramir's rangers would certainly have discovered them, but these were men used to open plains and the sounds of the forest confused their instincts. They passed and vanished between the trees. Rhanaer turned to her: "Are you well, my lady?" She nodded. Her pulse would not slow, though, and she noticed how close his body was to her own, hips brushing against her gown, nothing too scandalous, but oh so close and improper. He must have seen something in her expression, for he smiled, lifted his hand and brushed a stray curl out of her face. "My lady. Should I escort you back to the house?"

A little breathless Lothíriel replied: "That is probably for the best. I am rather hungry."

oOo

Lothíriel had met Rhanaer when she came to watch the morning riding drills during her first week in Emyn Arnen. He was one of the most accomplished horsemen in Faramir's company, with a confident, natural seat and a rather impetuous style, which had immediately drawn her to him.

"You ride well," she had said to him after the drills were over.

"Thank you, my lady princess. You are too kind," he had said, although his grin suggested he knew just how good he was.

In the afternoon she had encountered him again in the stables where she had been struggling with a new sidesaddle she had bought for Suldis. The leather was tough and cut rather too long, and she had been well annoyed when Rhanaer jumped in and helped her fix the straps. It proved a futile exercise in the end because Lothíriel discovered after just ten minutes that she much preferred riding bareback if she were made to do so sideways (although, according to Aunt Ivriniel, this entirely defeated the purpose of the exercise and she might as well ride astride then), but she had been impressed with the gallant soldier, and frequently sought him out after. He was always ready to entertain her despite his busy schedule, and they had become fast friends. He had some distant connection to a minor lord in the far west, but his father and his father's father had been farmers in Lebennin, which was what he had intended to do with his life before the growing darkness compelled him to join the rangers. He had distinguished himself in the Ring War, defending Minas Tirith and riding to the Morannon with King Elessar.

He was courteous, amusing and pleasant company, far better indeed than most of the lords who had sought her out in recent months. More handsome, too, with those green eyes and the beautiful broad shoulders of an archer. At some point Lothíriel had wondered if she perhaps suffered from an infatuation, but then dismissed it as a whim. Although she was flattered by his attentions and sometimes noticed herself finding excuses to almost brush against him, or walk in his field of vision, surely there was more to being in love than that.

Or perhaps not, she thought, as her body almost involuntarily concocted a stumble so that Rhanaer was forced to tighten his grip on her arm.

It was dark by the time Lothíriel and Rhanaer reached the main courtyard, and she said her farewells quickly before raiding the kitchens and then making her way to the northern wing of the house. She paused in front of a window to look out at the fires of the Rohirric camp. Their voices and raucous laughter carried through the night. Then one of the men struck up a tune, soon joined by drums and the rolling harmonies of the riders of the north. It was a melody Lothíriel knew well, although the rhythm was different from the versions she had heard before. Not quite the ponderous song they played in Minas Tirith or the fast-beating sensuous pulse of the country-dances of Belfalas, it had a persistent beat of its own, like horses galloping downhill. She could not make out the words, but the resonance felt the same as the song she knew so well. Strange and wonderful that such a connection could have survived even though their countries had been estranged for so long. With a sigh she drew the shutters close and continued her way up the stairs. She would seek out her friend Aldor tomorrow.

She opened the door to the study, hung up her torch and started lighting candles, until their glow and warmth filled the room. Her father would undoubtedly be annoyed with her for being wasteful, but who could be persuaded to work during the day when the weather was so fair and the grounds so tempting? Piles of papers and clutter greeted her on the desk, and a stack of letters that had arrived today was perched on the chair, put there deliberately to make sure she would not overlook them. Lothíriel placed them on the floor and surveyed the general mess. She was far behind, and it was beginning to worry her. She had better get through most of these tonight, because with the Rohirrim here she would not have much time for paperwork anymore.

Paperwork. It was just too dismal to even consider the word. She would have liked to have not cared, as she had always done before, but last week Éowyn had looked so very ill and strained that she found she no longer had the heart to be indifferent.

It had been her father's scheme, of course. He had announced it to her as a done deal – she was to assist Éowyn in preparing for the Great Council as Éowyn was soon to enter her confinement – and then he had leaned back with that same smug expression he wore when he had accepted a position at the Queen's court on her behalf.

"It is an excellent plan. I will see you there in six weeks or so," and with that, she had been dismissed.

As if it was nothing at all. Of course, Prince Imrahil had always had his formidable elder sister, her Aunt Ivriniel, by his side to take care of domestic matters so he could focus on the aspects of ruling that he enjoyed. Like most men, she suspected her father had little notion of the many chores and tasks being a Lady of the House involved, or just quite how much work went into hosting such a grand affair as King Elessar's Great Council: supplies, menus, diversions, even the allocation of rooms was a maze of political complications. Mind you, Lothíriel had not realised she knew much either, but it was rather amazing how many tidbits of information one inadvertently picked up after a year at court. With a sigh, she perused accounts and letters, translating the thoughtless Sindarin to Westron for Éowyn's benefit, and patiently adding names to the ever-growing list of guests.

The candles burnt low and so did her motivation for the work. It was just another week or so, she reminded herself. Then Arwen would be here, with Raissel and Hethlil: her friends who had organised and overseen many ceremonies and events in the past, and who would know exactly what to do and how. And perhaps Arwen would take them to visit the elven colony before the delegations got here. She spent a few happy minutes imagining such an outing, but then forced her thoughts back to the task at hand.

Well after midnight, her work finished at last, Lothíriel commandeered a forgotten scrap of paper and began a note to Amrothos, the only one of her brothers who could be relied upon to keep up a correspondence. She shared some trivial stories with him, spent half a page detailing Elboron's latest antics and pressed him for news from the city. When the paper was almost full she wrote:

 _King Éomer arrived today._

Her quill halted and she pondered for a moment.

 _He looked well._

She paused again. Should she have said seemed well? Amrothos had a tendency to fixate on such details that was most vexing. Oh well, never mind that.

 _And had much to say about the weather._

There, she grinned to herself. Then she signed her name and went to bed.

* * *

 _Author's Notes: Thank you all once again for the reviews; I love hearing from everyone. Anthi35 and Guest, really happy to hear you liked the first glimpse of the new Lothiriel; and I hope you continue to enjoy her. PoemstheEarth, this story is definitely also more of a coming-of-age tale than the previous installment, and don't worry, Lothiriel has plenty of scrapes to get into and out of still. You're completely right; Lothiriel is not the only one who could have handled certain situations with more grace, but Eomer is starting to get to know her better._

 _Happy weekend, all, and for those in the northern hemisphere: happy spring equinox!_


	7. A Delightful Visit

**A Delightful Visit**

The days passed, and Éowyn recovered as surely as Erchirion had predicted. She stopped taking her meals in her rooms, began wandering the grounds with Elboron, and paid a visit to the Rohirric camp. When the colour returned to her cheeks and she no longer winced with every step, she allowed a wet-nurse to share the burden of keeping Elboron nourished and content, as she – a little regretful - took up other duties again. She was soon swept up in overseeing the preparations for the council, planning meals and entertainment, and worrying over missing furniture and sheets. Lothíriel was often at her side and Éomer found to his surprise that the two had struck up a tentative, almost offhand friendship. Although Lothíriel and Éowyn were of similar rank and not far apart in age, they differed greatly in temperament and experience, and had not easily warmed to each other when they had met the year before. Yet Lothíriel now made Éowyn laugh more often than not, and he noticed Éowyn treated her much like she had always treated him: with genuine warmth hidden under a layer of thorough exasperation.

Éowyn refused any of his offers to help, as she seemed convinced that he needed a holiday, and Éomer at first was at a loss what to do with so many idle hours. Remembering Firefoot's and his own need for exercise, he began using the early hours of the morning to ride out and explore the hills and woods of Ithilien. It appeared to him a land lost in time; drenched in a golden, hazy silence and stuck in a laden and perpetual autumn. Indeed, it was so unlike the plains and winds of Rohan - the sea of grass and the snow-clad peaks of the mountains - that it rather unsettled him. Fortunately, Faramir had an excellent cavalry courtyard as well, and it was perfectly possible to do the bulk of his drills with Firefoot in the yard. So Éomer exercised his mounts, sparred with Faramir, practiced archery with the rangers, went boating with his men on the river, and altogether felt more at leisure than he had since the celebrations at Cormallen.

Another visitor who made grateful use of Faramir's yard was Lothíriel, who often took out her little palfrey Suldis for training – or, if Éomer were less charitable, some aimless amusement. She was undoubtedly proficient, though. The princess seldom bothered with a saddle or even a bridle, and yet could manage a gallop while riding her horse sideways, supremely graceful in her seat but somewhat uncontrolled, just as he remembered her.

"Riding sideways is ridiculous," Éowyn called down when one morning Lothíriel and Suldis swerved to avoid a jump, and Lothíriel had to clutch onto the mare's mane to avoid sliding off.

"Riding astride is for cowards afraid to fall," called back Lothíriel.

She spurred on her mare and raced another few laps, now bypassing the hurdle every time, and finally came to a stop next to the stands where Éomer was sitting with Éowyn and Faramir. She dismounted, waved away three men who had hurried to her aid and walked Suldis to the water trough. Aldor was beside her within a minute, as a lodestone would find a nail, and proceeded to help her rub down her horse. Éomer wondered if the Princess realised how completely besotted the boy was.

"Hopeless show-off," declared Éowyn, as Suldis, taking advantage of a momentary inattention on Lothíriel's part, stepped into the trough and splashed around, spraying water all over her mistress and everyone nearby. With a soaked-through tunic and and her face pulled into a decidedly affected expression of shock, the girl accepted Aldor's cloak and wrapped it around her, sending him a coquettish smile in reward. Well, Éomer supposed that answered his earlier question.

"I see Lothíriel found a way around your side-saddle ban," he commented drily.

Faramir laughed. "I think she still keeps the saddle hidden in the stables somewhere, although indeed she does not make much use of it."

"I never thought Imrahil would elect for some imagined propriety over practicality in this," mused Éomer. When he had met Lothíriel, she had still been riding astride. Should he mention the girl's maidenhead was a lost cause by now anyway? No, better not. Such a statement might be taken the wrong way entirely.

"Actually, Imrahil does not care whether she rides side-saddle or not, although it is fashionable and certainly in my father's day it was very common for ladies to do so. I think my cousin just enjoys it."

"Everything you do seems much more impressive when you do it sideways," came Lothíriel's voice as she joined them on the stands. The girl was not wrong. The unguarded admiration in the eyes of some of his riders could attest to that, although he knew it was in part because they just did not expect a Gondorian, let alone a Gondorian lady, to be an even middling horsewoman.

"Yes, but you can do far more and ride much faster when you sit astride. And without looking like a twit, too," said Éowyn.

"Are you not riding today, my lord?" asked Lothíriel.

"Later," said Éomer. "But I will probably opt for the coward's way: with one leg to each side."

To his satisfaction, the princess's colour deepened a little and she studiously shifted her attention to the men and horses still in the ring. "I will go and change," she announced after a moment.

"After you are done, we can go over those recommendations for a pantler," said Éowyn, somewhat imperiously. "Half of the candidates submitted theirs in Sindarin, and you read it much more easily than I do."

"Honestly, Éowyn. I do not even need to see them to know they will be filled with lofty nonsense. That is why they submit them in Sindarin in the first place."

"Even so, it needs to be done and done fairly," said Éowyn. "I had really hoped to appoint someone well before everyone's arrival, but it cannot be helped now. Still, we had better take care of it as soon as possible."

"Very well," said Lothíriel. Éomer could not help staring after her as she skipped down the steps towards the house.

He stayed and helped Faramir put his men through drills for the rest of the morning. He took pleasure in the work: he had always found training young riders one of the most rewarding benefits of his position when he was a marshal. He knew he could still take on a few such tasks if he wished – it was common for the king of the Mark to be actively involved in his army - but he had been so burdened with the political and administrative duties of his crown that there had been little time for other pursuits. If he would just delegate more… but after Wormtongue, Éomer found it hard to trust and lean on his advisors. Besides, they all seemed singularly obsessed with his marriage.

As if a woman would be a magical solution to all his realm's troubles.

Towards the end of the morning, Faramir departed on patrol and Éomer, a little regretful, returned to his chambers to change, where he was greeted by a ready-drawn bath. When he pointed out that he had not asked for one – he had thought to go down to the camp after dinner and bathe in the river as he had been doing almost every day, reluctant to burden the household more than was necessary – a passing servant told him the Princess of Dol Amroth had it prepared for him. Unsure whether it was intended as a subtle critique of his personal hygiene, or whether Lothíriel was just being thoughtful, he decided he might as well make use of it. Afterwards he dressed in the freshly pressed tunic that was laid out on his bed – the servants, or another attention from Lothíriel? – and made his way down to the Great Hall for dinner. During the course of it, a young page arrived with a message for Éowyn. He imparted his news with a look of grave importance, and Éowyn turned to face Lothíriel.

"It's a message from your father. He will be here by supper-time, with twenty knights and Prince Erchirion."

Lothíriel's face lit up. "Oh, I'm so glad!"

"Did you know he would come today?"

"I did not. My father does not discuss his movements with me, generally speaking. Éowyn, why are you glaring at me?"

"I was not expecting them for another few days," said his sister irritably. "We are not prepared to receive two-score men tonight. The kitchen is still understaffed and there is no food in the stores! All shipments were delayed due to the drought."

"Then what were we going to eat?" asked Éomer, a little disconcerted.

"Well, of course there is something," said Éowyn. "But one cannot serve the Prince of Dol Amroth leftover stew." Éomer had to restrain himself from the petulant interjection that _he_ was _king._ "And there won't be enough seats! The new furniture will not be brought in until the day after tomorrow."

After a thoughtful pause Lothíriel said: "What if we just have the tables set up in the courtyard with whatever food we have in the pantry that requires little preparation? Breads, cheeses, fruits. Make sure there is plenty of wine too. No one will notice the absence of a few chairs."

"You wish to serve your father bread and cheese?" asked Éowyn dubiously.

" He will not notice the sparseness of the food if the set-up is charming. We can light fires and roast some of those apples we picked yesterday. It will be like a picnic." Lothíriel had clearly warmed to her idea and sounded rather excited.

"Imrahil is always so correct and insistent on the observance of ceremony…"

"Why, yes, but it is all pretense. He thinks he is formal and solemn only because he has grown used to it. Trust me, he will love this. In that sense, he is much like Faramir."

"Formal and solemn?"

"No," Lothíriel gave his sister an exasperated look as if it should be obvious. "Easily distracted by pretty trees." Éomer couldn't help himself and snorted at this astute assessment of his brother-in-law's character. When the ladies glanced at him in unison, he straightened his face and coughed, pretending to mind his own business.

"The arrangements should be easy enough. I am going for a ride with Aldor."

Éowyn's look of disturbance mirrored his own feelings. "With Elric's boy? Éomer's squire? Lothíriel, that sounds unwise."

Lothíriel made an offhand gesture. "We are just going down to the Rohirric camp, and a little up the river."

"I think it better if you stay. I could use your help," said Éowyn.

"Éowyn," Lothíriel looked at her, entreaty and impatience fighting for control of her features. "My father is arriving today. These are my last hours of freedom."

"If you are back before the golden hour, you can help me ready the rooms," said Éowyn finally. "You know your father and brother's needs the best."

Lothíriel gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "I promise to be back before they arrive." Then she got off the bench, straightened her skirts and made to leave. "Just have the servants ready the rooms; I am sure it will be well," she called over her shoulder.

"She is probably right. Imrahil is family, and he is well aware how busy we have been," said Éowyn after a moment.

Éomer had listened to the exchange with increasing displeasure. "I will tell Aldor that he cannot take her."

"Ah, Éomer, I wish you would not. Lothíriel is grown, and not your responsibility."

"But she is yours as long as she dwells in your house! Besides, it is unsafe, and entirely improper." In the Mark, if a young man and woman of noble lineage went riding together it frequently led to a hurried wedding – not that this did not happen regularly; his people were an impetuous lot after all.

"I am certain Lothíriel sees Aldor as nothing more than a convenient groom and playmate."

"Playmate? Are you jesting? These are not children."

"I would not trust them if they were."

Éomer resisted the urge to grind his teeth. His sister was married, and a mother, and had no business acting so naïve. "You said Lothíriel has received suitors in Ithilien. Would you and Faramir let _them_ wander off unsupervised?"

Éowyn made a vague gesture. "As long as they stay well out of the rose garden."

"Éowyn! Lothíriel is a princess of Gondor!"

"What of it? It is not as if we feel young men need such scrutiny and attention. Faramir vouched for all of her suitors, by the way, and agrees that constant supervision seems excessive. As for Lothíriel, she is not completely without sense, and more importantly, appears spectacularly uninterested in every single one of them."

"If you could refrain from making a cause out of Imrahil's daughter…" said Éomer with growing impatience. He knew exactly what was going on in his sister's head, and was not unsympathetic, but somehow Éowyn always knew how to take things too far. "Lothíriel has a responsibility to her lord and land, and you are now her kin; it is your duty to guide her." His sister's eyes narrowed, and he knew he was trotting on dangerous ground. "Éowyn, Lothíriel is not like you. This is not the same at all," he added helplessly. And then, in a more belligerent tone: "I hope you and Faramir will be rid of this before you spoil that poor babe of yours rotten."

"I simply know how to pick my battles." Éomer did not argue with that. The Lady of the Shield-Arm knew how to pick her battles so well that songs would be sung of it for a thousand years at least. "It seems such a trivial issue."

"Indeed. Lothíriel's virtue and reputation. Very trivial," grumbled Éomer.

"Brother, I never knew you so priggish," said Éowyn. "And what more, you had no qualms about meeting with her in the garden all alone yourself. Éothain informed me you even sent him and your guards away." He felt his ears grow hot and tried to formulate a response. "As I said before, Éomer. You always were a hypocrite."

oOo

By the time Imrahil and Erchirion arrived, the sun had disappeared behind the hills and the sky had deepened to a cornflower blue. The rangers greeted the incoming visitors with a blast of their horns (Elboron instantly burst into tears again) and the family rushed out to the courtyard to receive their guests. A company of some forty men came through the gates, and in front, Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, fair and solemn, and looking at least twenty years younger than he had any right to look. Lothíriel ran up to him before the prince even had a chance to dismount and almost dragged him off his horse in a wild embrace. He scolded her with a smile, and she kissed his cheek more gently before once again wrapping her arms around his neck. It reminded him of his sister when they had been very young, and their father had returned from raids or business abroad. Éowyn, then a little rascal hiding under a head of perfect blonde ringlets, would clutch at their father's legs, refuse to let go and never stop chattering at him. Éomund would laugh, lift her high in the air and hold her close while greeting their mother with a kiss. It was the kind of homecoming any warrior dreamed of on the road… He wondered fleetingly, if it came to it, whether Imrahil could actually bear part with his daughter.

The newcomers retired to refresh themselves, and the rest of the household made their way down to the gardens where the banquet had been set up. Wooden tables from the barracks had been carried outside and were now laden with food; casks of wine stood piled up in the corner just waiting to be opened. Under Lothíriel's direction, small glass jars filled with candle stubs had been suspended from the trees surrounding the tables, serving as impromptu chandeliers, along with soft wind chimes and gossamer silks in silver and blue. Fires had been lit all across the courtyard to chase away the dark and chill of the evening, and they had added dried applewood and cedar to the pits so that the smell was both sweet and appetizing.

"We thought you might enjoy a more light and informal supper, Ada," he overheard Lothíriel say as she and Éowyn passed around the traditional cup of welcome. "After all, we are among family."

oOo

The moon rose from behind the trees, and Faramir and Imrahil had gone on to discussing a situation at Osgiliath, where a delay in the arrival of building materials had halted the reconstruction of the port. The question was whether to continue reparations with stone, or to wait until the granite docks that were deemed historically accurate could be recreated. It was apparently a very sensitive issue. Éomer could not help himself, and yawned.

"Do not worry," said Erchirion, who had appeared beside him. "No one expects you to take an interest in my father's granite obsession. Come." They strolled to the other end of the courtyard in companionable silence, until they halted at the edge of the gardens, where the forest crept up right next to the earthen walls.

"It's been years, and I still recognise every tree," said Erchirion. "So much has changed. The air feels less hostile."

"You were a ranger, too. I had forgotten."

"It is not exactly a commonplace occupation for a prince of Dol Amroth."

Éomer had never heard a full account of this story and his curiosity was piqued. "In the Mark it used to be fairly common for noble-born sons to be fostered out."

"We have a similar practice," said Erchirion. "Although less so in recent decades, as the situation became dire, and commands and castles were inherited younger and younger. But all three of us were fostered at Minas Tirith for a while. It was important to my father. He was always loyal to Denethor, even if they did not always agree."

"Did you join the rangers then?"

"No," Erchirion laughed. "I was eleven, and more interested in pranks and stories than practicing swordplay. It drove my Uncle to despair, and he decided I was of no use to him within a year or two. Elphir was the good one. Boromir and he were close." Absentmindedly Erchirion added some dried leaves to the flames. "I came here after we lost my mother. I found I could not stay in Dol Amroth."

Erchirion's open vulnerability shook him. "How old were you?"

"It was soon after my twentieth Midsummer. Yes, a man grown, just entrusted with my first command" smiled Erchirion, noticing the puzzled expression that had appeared on his face. "But Faramir understood, and he reached out to me. He was my captain for three years before I returned to Belfalas, out of duty to my father and siblings. If it were up to me, I would have followed Faramir to the end of the earth."

Like he had loved Théoden-King, and Théodred, his cousin. "Faramir is a good man. He helped my sister through her grief as well."

"Aye, although those efforts were a bit more self-serving," said Erchirion brazenly. Then he grew somber again. "It will be eleven years since my mother was lost tomorrow."

"Lothíriel…"

"… was only nine."

It was as if he felt a knife twist in his gut. "Éowyn was seven."

The princess of Dol Amroth chose that moment to appear into the clearing and approached them with a smile on her face. He met his friend's eyes and Erchirion gave a subtle shake of his head.

"You seem very solemn," said Lothíriel as she joined them at the fire. "Are we out of wine?"

"No indeed," said Erchirion. "I was just telling Éomer of the boar cub I saved and nursed back to health during my time in Ithilien. Remember Morsel?"

"You are voluntarily spreading that tale now? You are definitely my most embarrassing brother."

"A distinction to be proud of considering Amrothos is contending," said Erchirion to Éomer. "What are you hiding in that roasting tin, Lothi?"

She showed them her bounty; a dozen or so sweet chestnuts, already freed from their husks and ready to eat.

"I found them. What more, I am willing to share them with you, if you do the work of course."

Erchirion took responsibility for the roasting tin and Lothíriel started telling the story of Morsel the boar cub, just because "the king of Rohan deserves to know the whole frivolous truth of it." Éomer felt the tension unraveling as they were swept away by her merriment. The scent of roast chestnut filled the air, and dusk made way for a starlit night.

"We used to do this at our winter palace," said Lothíriel with a trace of wistfulness. "In the years before the war."

Their indulgence was interrupted by jeering and shouting, followed by loud applause. Éomer glanced at the source of the disturbance and groaned. A group of his riders had gotten involved in a drinking contest with the swan knights, and appeared at a disadvantage. No wonder: many of them were inexperienced and unfamiliar with the heady strength of the southern wines. Especially the boy at the centre of the current commotion, Aldor Elricsson, who was attempting to down a goblet greater than his fist, filled to the brim with Ithilien's finest. Cheers erupted only moments later, signaling Aldor's success, and then laughter as the boy took one step and sank to his knees. A forfeit. Aldor appeared amused rather than upset, and slurred a Rohirric drinking song while waving his arms listlessly in the air. His father, Elric, stood by and laughed loudest of all.

Lothíriel took a delicate sip from her goblet. "I wish I had the nerve to appear so drunk in front of father. He would have to send me home and I could forego all the upcoming formalities."

"Trust me, that never ends well," said Erchirion.

"It will not end well for Aldor either," said Éomer. "He has never had your wines before, and has no idea of the brutal day he is in for tomorrow. And see that glint in Elric's eyes? He is already planning to put his son to work until he wishes he could just keel over and die. Mucking out stables becomes a most repetitive task when you are constantly forced to clear your own vomit as well."

"But poor Aldor!" Lothíriel looked horrified. "We should help him."

"Do not let it trouble you," said Éomer hastily, as he belatedly realised this had not been a suitable observation to make in front of a highborn Gondorian maiden. "He will be fine. Elfhelm did the same to me when I was just a rider in his éored."

The horror in her eyes turned to shock. "You were the nephew of the king."

"And Aldor is the grandson of Erkenbrand of the Westmark. It is a valuable lesson nonetheless," said Éomer. At least it had taught him to hold his liquor like a man.

Meanwhile, the boy was staggering towards the edge of the forest, followed by taunts and jests from swan knights and riders, including the boy's father. A breeze caused the fire to flicker momentarily, and Éomer caught a resolved expression on the princess of Dol Amroth's face that filled him with a sense of foreboding.

oOo

Éomer had almost forgotten about his premonition when he heard light footsteps in the hall outside his chambers. He was instantly awake – no one would catch Éomer Éomundsson unawares – and when he heard the door of the room next to him creak open, he got out of bed, threw on his cloak, and rushed into the hallway.

Lothíriel's expression was utterly guilty.

"What do you think you are doing?" Éomer demanded.

"I just hoped to make sure Aldor was all right."

"You will do no such thing. Go back to bed."

"I need only a few moments."

At this point Éomer was awake enough to appreciate the full audacity of Lothíriel's intentions. "I am not sure how you continue to come up with these harebrained schemes of yours, Lothíriel, but if you think I will just let you walk into one of my men's chambers in the middle of the night, you will find you are sorely mistaken."

"Please, King Éomer," said Lothíriel in an uncharacteristically small voice. "It is nothing like that. I mean, nothing unseemly. I would just see if he needs help."

"He will be fine. Aldor's education is my responsibility and I will see that he learns from his ill-judged bravura."

Those wide and gray eyes rose to meet his. "To be sure. He can engage in as much tedious work as you deem educational, but as his friend I would hate to see him hurt."

"Have you considered that your fancy of acting as some sort of guardian spirit would shame him in his companions' eyes?"

"Yes. Which is why I came after everyone had gone to bed." Having ascertained he did not suspect her of clandestine bedroom visits, her confidence had apparently returned to her: "If you could just step out of the way, my lord…" she said and then deftly bypassed him and reached for the handle.

Blast the girl. He could easily restrain her physically, but then she would be able to claim the moral high ground. He could also let her do as she intended, whatever that was. If no one else thought the Princess's willfulness was problematic, why should he waste his energies? Although…

"I am not letting you out of my sight, do you hear me?" he said, and Lothíriel nodded, but not before a grin had briefly lit up her features.

They found Aldor lying in a pitiful heap on the floor, head leaning against one of the bedposts. "Oh, hello, Princess," he greeted Lothíriel. Then he squinted at Éomer. "My lord." Conscious then, but thoroughly miserable.

"Hi Aldor," said Lothíriel in a soft, friendly tone. "Can you stand?"

"Of course," said the boy, a little insulted. He made no move to get to his feet however.

"Here. Let us do it together." Lothíriel kneeled next to him and helped him up. Aldor took after his grandfather and was tall and broad for his age, but she managed it quite handily nonetheless.

"Your hair is so pretty," the boy gaped when he had found his footing.

"Lothíriel, truly, it is better if you go." The last thing he wanted was for his young squire to cause a scandal. The lad knew better than to have any serious designs on the princess, but thus inebriated… well, Éomer had done a stupid thing or two in his own time as well.

She just smiled, and began gently pushing Aldor towards the bed, sat him down and helped him out of his boots. Next she got him to rest his legs on the bed, and then she propped up the pillows, letting him sink into them, but not too far. Éomer marvelled at the scene and began to suspect this what not the first time Lothíriel had come to the aid of an intoxicated man. Erchirion? Probably, he decided, remembering a particularly rowdy night at Edoras last year. Definitely Amrothos. Lucky curs. His sister would have just watched with glee and let him suffer.

"He needs some herbs, or he will feel very ill tomorrow," said Lothíriel. "You wait here. I shall be right back."

Éomer moved towards the door and held it open for her. "I said I would not let you out of my sight," he said curtly.

"Aldor needs looking after, not I," argued Lothíriel. "If you could make sure he stays upright…"

Éomer had supported and comforted many of his riders through the years, held their hair as they retched after their first battle, but never because they were thick-headed enough to get completely intoxicated (at least, not since his younger years when such things regularly happened to himself as well), and lost a drinking contest to some southern lightweights. He was not about to start now.

"He will be fine. I am not letting you wander about at night alone."

She looked a trifle annoyed at his unwillingness to play the nurse, but agreed. "Very well, but you had best put on shoes, my lord."

She led them outside to one of the guard towers, stood at the foot and squinted into the light that came from one of the upper floor windows.

"Rhanaer," she called. "Are you still there?"

A scuffling, and then a face popped up in the window; Éomer recognised him as one of the challengers: "Princess Lothíriel." A grin appeared on the man's face. "What a pleasant surprise." Only then did he seem to notice Éomer, and his expression turned to puzzlement: "My lord king. May I be of service?"

"Yes, you may be," said Lothíriel. "I need to borrow _rhíwgalen_ oil. And _finwen_ , too, if you have it."

The ranger eyed them speculatively. "Princess, forgive me. I am not a healer. Why not check the surgery?"

"Because there is none to be found in the surgery, as you well know. All Healer Albarad cares to prescribe is a scolding, and perhaps an extra serving of eggs if you are lucky."

"And what makes you suspect that I keep these herbs, my lady?" The question was accompanied by a cocky smile that rubbed Éomer entirely the wrong way.

"Don't lie to me, Rhanaer. There is no way that any man can drink that much wine and appear perfectly refreshed at the archery range before sunrise every morning. Some might say you cheat, you know."

"You know far too much, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth." He leaned further out of the window and gestured to the door. "Come in. I was just making a brew, and I am willing to share."

oOo

When they returned to Aldor's room with a cup of steaming tea and a vial of what Lothíriel had translated as wintergreen oil, the boy was only half-conscious and slipping into sleep. Lothíriel sat down on a chair next to his bed, and carefully shook him until he opened his eyes.

"Lothíriel, this is ridiculous. He will sleep it off."

"You do not have to stay," she said, a little impatiently.

There was no possible scenario in which he would leave Princess Lothíriel alone with a sixteen-year old infatuated and intoxicated Eorling, no matter how drowsy and harmless he appeared now. So he folded his arms across his chest, and Lothíriel turned around with a sigh, dipped her fingers into the oil and with deft and gentle gestures proceeded to rub it into Aldor's temples and wrists. Its minty scent filled the room along with a bracing, wholesome feeling. He was reminded of Aragorn in the House of the Healing and a little impressed in spite of himself. Perhaps Lothíriel was not without some Númenórean grace of her own after all. When she was done with the oil, she passed the tea to Aldor and coaxed him to take careful sips. The boy looked a little flustered when he took in his surroundings, but his eyes had cleared, as had the slur in his voice. Lothíriel spoke softly to him, and brushed his hair out of his face.

Éomer could not help but feel that Aldor was far, far too lucky tonight. Fantastic, he mused. Instead of being properly shamed and knocked down a peg or two, it seemed that he would be dealing with an even more lovestruck squire than before. He hoped the boy would not get any ideas. As the grandson of Erkenbrand, Aldor might one day far into the future lead the muster of the Westmark as the Lord of Helm's Deep, but even that was not a given as in the Mark merit was as important as lineage when it came to these positions. Not that Aldor was a bad sort. Sure, he was rather absent-minded at times, and a complete fool at others. Yet he was great with Firefoot and all horses, and brave enough to go against his king's orders if he believed in his cause strongly enough, which was vexing, but with some experience and honing would make him suitable for command. But Éomer knew Imrahil would be unlikely to give his daughter to a mere marshal of Rohan; Lothíriel was a princess, and thus, no one in the Mark could lay claim to her… except, of course, for the king. The turns of his thoughts halted him in his tracks. What a notion. Imrahil had never mentioned or encouraged the match. He probably would prefer her to marry a lord of Gondor or – more likely – knew that Lothíriel and he would not suit.

Aldor was drifting off to sleep, and Lothíriel seemed content that he was on his way to recovery at last. She motioned at him and together they left the room.

She curtsied. "I thank you for your confidence, my lord. As you see, nothing untoward or improper happened."

Nothing improper! How would Imrahil react if he knew his daughter had snuck into a drunken man's room in the middle of the night? It was not what bothered him most, though. "I suppose I should thank you for taking care of him and rewarding him for his idiocy. You have valiantly saved him from learning his own limits."

She wrinkled her nose and gave him a pensive look. "Do not despair, my lord. Some of us are capable of reflecting on our bad behaviour without suffering its full consequences."

"The boy needs a scolding, not to be pampered and fussed over."

"The world would be a lot more wearisome if all poor decisions got the scolding they deserve."

He made an impatient motion. "A wisdom from Amrothos, no doubt."

"No," said Lothíriel. "That one is mine."

* * *

 _A/N Transitions, character development, setting up storylines… I hope you all found something to enjoy anyway! As always, I am super grateful for the reviews, and also for a huge thank you to everyone who favorited / followed. It's wonderful to see proof of people reading and enjoying the story as much as I enjoyed writing it! Catherine, there will be no Twilight-type love triangles in this story. I promise. Anthi, I'm glad you like Lothiriel so much! Hope you're happy with the longer update! PoemstheEarth, no spoilers (ha). And yes, I am definitely riffing of Pride & Prejudice still. As you may have noticed, though, while I borrowed the title and chapter titles of "First Impressions" from Pride & Prejudice, None of the Usual Inducements and its chapter titles are all quotations from Emma, and you'll see more elements of that story popping up as well. The overall plot, however, is not really like either of these novels at all. You're a very observant reader, by the way! JRB, I am glad you are enjoying the stories! And yes, Lothiriel is certainly reveling in this newfound power._

 _Finwen is maidenhair, another name for gingko, which in Japan is known as a hangover cure. Wintergreen oil, or rhíwgalen in Sindarin, is another ye olde hangover cure. Special thanks to Eldhoron for helping me with the translations. Have a lovely weekend, everyone!_


	8. A Very Indifferent Education

**A Very Indifferent Education**

"It is rather late in the season for breeding," the deep voice of the King of Rohan carried through the stables.

"Our summers are long, so our breeding season runs rather later than up north, I imagine. I expect quite a few of our mares will go in heat over the next few weeks." It was her father. Lothíriel disappeared a little further into Suldis's stable, loath to be discovered overhearing this particular conversation. Meanwhile, the men were sizing up another mare further down the row.

"My daughter's mare has yet to carry a foal," she heard her father say. "She is descended from a bloodline from Harad, in fact. Somewhat smaller, temperamental, but intelligent and built for speed."

The King seemed to consider for a second. "Suldis is a fine horse; spirited, but with gentle manners and a lovely gait. Her frame is a little small and delicate for anything we brought, though."

"I was looking at Gudrof earlier…" said Imrahil. "Beautiful line and conformation, and not too large, I think."

"Perhaps," the King sounded dubious. "Let me have another look. It is usually fairly clear how a mare will carry by the time they reach their third year."

Lothíriel looked around for an escape but found none. Thus she did the next best thing: drawing herself up to full height, she returned to her grooming activities and convinced herself she was entirely at ease with the situation.

"Ah, Lothíriel," said her father a little drily as they came around the corner. "I did not realise you were here."

She hesitated only a moment. "Good day, father. My lord. I was just brushing Suldis." And then, before her father could do something embarrassing like dismiss her: "I did not know you were planning to breed with her."

"Should you not be helping Éowyn in the house, dearest? Our grooms can take of Suldis."

"When were you going to tell me? She is mine, after all."

"Let's discuss this later, Lothíriel. I'm sure you are needed."

Lothíriel cast a sideways glance at King Éomer. Was it her imagination or did he look more uncomfortable than either of them? "I don't think Suldis is ready to carry a foal. I am just teaching her to respond to voice commands."

Her father changed tactics. "Lothíriel, could you go and find the kitchen staff and have them lay out some refreshments for us in the orangery? It is an uncommonly hot morning."

"I just thought I should…" she started but her father was smiling that infuriatingly inscrutable smile of his and Lothíriel fell silent. "I promise I didn't learn anything I oughtn't," she mumbled before she could stop herself.

At last there was some threat to his voice. "Lothíriel, please do as I asked, dear."

"Yes, Ada."

Feeling more humiliated than would have been necessary, and therefore somewhat cross, Lothíriel left the stables. The more time she spent with her father, the more she had the chance to notice that whenever something of true interest was about to be discussed, she was diplomatically sent out of the room. As if she would be soiled irrevocably just by engaging in a little talk about horse breeding, or babes born out of wedlock, or the brothels that had sprouted up in Belfalas in the wake of the war and the soldiers' return.

There was no need for it either, for Lothíriel considered herself well informed about the reality and the technical aspects of the deed. Never mind her profligate brother: when she was eleven, a young stallion had escaped into the yard while some mares were being exercised, and before the stablehands could recapture him, the colt had covered Nimroch, Aunt Ivriniel's majestic mare, before her very eyes. Lothíriel had not been able to look away from the spectacle, until her brother Elphir had blocked her view and dragged her inside the castle. Granted, it had been just that one time, but Lothíriel had a detailed and vivid memory of what she had seen. (Besides, she had a fair idea of what was between her own legs –which was apparently so precious that she had been discouraged from exploring the area for as long as she could remember – not that she had let that stop her.) But what would her father know of that? He had been away from Dol Amroth at the time, as he had so often been while she was growing up, and seemed to trust implicitly that Aunt Ivriniel's vigilant custody had successfully left her clueless. (Said aunt, on the other hand, cherished no such illusions; although when Ivriniel had discovered her niece with a volume of risqué poetry, she had given a long speech about how puffed up notions such as romance and passion were best left to men. "A man has many paths open to him… but a woman who marries a baker will always be a baker's wife. The choice of a husband determines who a woman will be for the rest of her life; and if she is not a complete ninny she will not let the prospect of a few pleasurable years in the marriage bed influence her decision.")

The affair with Nimroch had been quite shocking at the time. It seemed an indelicate act, and supremely uncomfortable. Before the equine mishap, Lothíriel had never believed bedding a man was quite such an ordeal as some texts made it out to be – it was hard to do so considering the steady stream of willing women sneaking in and out of Amrothos's bedroom at night – but afterwards she had begun to consider that perhaps it was a situation she should rather strive to avoid after all.

She had attempted to put the dilemma to her brothers a few years later, but the conversation had been quite disappointing. This was on a warm day in summer; some years before Elphir was married; and Erchirion had still been in Ithilien with Faramir. She was thirteen, or maybe twelve, and one of her early childhood companions, the cook's daughter, had just had her marriage contract dissolved and been returned to her family for not conceiving within the first year. This did not often happen, especially among the lower classes, and so it had caused a bit of a scandal. The girl had not been seen since her return and it worried Lothíriel greatly – a hint of concern for the fate of her former friend mingled with a much more acute anxiety about what might be in store for her. In her mind she had just been revisiting the scene with Nimroch and the colt when her brother asked her what she was pondering so earnestly.

"I was thinking about lovemaking," she had said after some deliberation.

Elphir had blanched a little, but Amrothos was unfazed as always: "Oh indeed?"

"Yes. I know I am not supposed to know about it." This punctuated by an impatient wave. "Just tell me: is it so terrible that men do not want women to find out before they are entrapped in a marriage? Or so wonderful that you fear we might not be able to help ourselves once we start?"

"Yes, I can see how you would think such," said Amrothos. "But alas, like many things, the secrecy has little to do with what pleases or fails to please women."

"Then why?"

"A man wants to be certain that whatever comes out is because of what he put there, so to say."

"Amrothos, please." Elphir looked thoroughly discomfited now.

"You are talking of children?"

"Yes," said Amrothos. "Mostly." A furious look from their older brother caused him to burst out in laughter. "Certainly, children," he corrected himself.

"Very well," said Lothíriel, a little puzzled and annoyed at both for not speaking more plainly. "But that does not explain the secrecy. How are we supposed to learn how to do it properly? Especially," she added in a small voice, "considering the stakes are so high if we get it wrong."

"Ah, so that is what is bothering you." Elphir relaxed and patted her hand. "Don't worry about it, Loth. It's unlikely you will have any trouble."

"But you see, do you think it would not be better if I had already done it before father marries me off to some lord or other? Just as a trial run. So that they would know everything is fully functional?"

"Interesting thought," commented Amrothos. "Rather unorthodox, but if you feel strongly about it, I suggest you bring it up with father."

"Father hates uncontrolled breeding," Lothíriel had murmured, leading to another bout of Amrothos's merry laughter.

"The truth is, Lothíriel, that any man who would dare touch you in such a way without father's express and written permission," began Elphir rather pompously.

"And mine," Lothíriel had interrupted.

"And yours," Elphir conceded. "If any man would touch you without first properly wedding you, Amrothos and I would have to kill him."

"I suppose that is true," said Amrothos.

"It is certainly true," said Elphir. "It would be regrettable, especially if you loved him, but some duties in life are non-negotiable."

"So," said Amrothos, stretching out lazily like a cat. "If you're considering bedding before wedding, think hard, because it would make a murderer of you, little sister. Indirectly, but there may well not be a difference if we are to believe Vardamir's philosophical treatise on accountability."

"I was not considering it."

"That's a relief," had Elphir said drily, and that had been the end of that.

oOo

Some days after the incident in the stables, King Elessar and Arwen arrived in Emyn Arnen, and with them came many lords and ladies of the court. Among them were Arwen's other maids of honour: Hethlil of Pinnath Gelin, and Raissel, youngest daughter of Húrin of the Keys. Lothíriel embraced her friends, relieved to have them returned to her after a month of being almost exclusively surrounded by men. Of course Éowyn, whom she had initially appraised as a slighter and prettier version of her brother, had proven to be a spectacular companion. Still, the Princess of Ithilien was sadly lacking in some areas, as she had no interest in fashion, hairstyles or court gossip and many of the other newly discovered pleasures Lothíriel liked to indulge in with Hethlil and Raissel.

Lothíriel had also truly missed Arwen's calming presence, so the first thing she did was help the queen get settled, unpack and air out her gowns, and introduce her to the ways and quirks of Emyn Arnen. Her queen was as beautiful as ever, but rather subdued, and to her disappointment announced that she would join them only for a few days. With some concern Lothíriel asked if Arwen was unwell.

"Not unwell, Lothíriel. Can you keep a secret?"

The question gave Lothíriel pause. "I am not sure. Whom am I keeping it from?"

"Hethlil and Raissel already know." Arwen smiled and placed a hand on her centre in an unmistakeable gesture and Lothíriel's heart filled with joy.

"It is a girl," said Arwen. "She will be born next spring."

"A girl! How wonderful! We need more princesses," said Lothíriel.

"That is also my opinion." The Queen sat down slowly on the bed. "This one is proving to be quite as much of a handful as the ones we already have. I cannot get her to lie still."

"We shall take good care of you, I promise," said Lothíriel, already making some adjustments to the schedule in her mind. "Why don't you rest this afternoon and take a walk in the gardens with Éowyn? You could both retire after the reception, and Hethlil, Raissel and I will preside over the tea and embroidery session."

"Why, Lothíriel, you must love me very much if you are willing to lead an embroidery session on my behalf." Lothíriel blushed a little as Arwen embraced her. "That would be most welcome. I have missed you, my friend. Minas Tirith is not the same without you."

Lothíriel was gratified. She knew Arwen did not play favourites and spent time with all of them individually as well as together, but Lothíriel, as the daughter of Prince Imrahil, had got to travel to Rohan with the newly crowned Queen and the fallen King of the Rohirrim (as well as his taciturn replacement). Arwen had been grieving over the loss of her father, Elrond Peredhel, who would soon leave the shores of Middle-Earth behind, and Lothíriel had supported her as best she could. They had been close ever since – at least, as close as one conceivably could be to an almost 3,000 year old Elf. If Hethlil and Raissel envied her this intimacy, they never showed it, and the three maidens had become fast friends.

Their friendship would face another, graver test this week though: with the number of visitors, not all could be accommodated in private rooms and even Lothíriel would have to share her quarters. The magnificent four-poster in her chamber could easily sleep an entire family, but Lothíriel still felt dubious as the servants added two extra sets of blankets and pillows. She had never had a bedfellow – unlike Hethlil and Raissel who had been at court together at Minas Tirith for years – and she suspected she might not be very good at sharing. Moreover, Lothíriel's maid, Maeneth, who slept in the antechamber, would now be burdened with the task of looking after all three of them. The inevitable loss of some trusted comforts would undoubtedly require some fortitude on her part. With a philosophical shrug, Lothíriel made space in the wardrobe while Raissel and Hethlil unpacked their possessions.

After they had settled in and washed up, the girls changed into their finery for the reception. Maeneth was efficient but a bit of a bore, so Lothíriel soon dismissed her and allowed Raissel to dress her hair instead, which she could do very prettily, with lots of intricate twists and braids that redirected her curls to fall over her left shoulder. Meanwhile, Hethlil and Raissel caught her up on court gossip, enthused over Arwen's pregnancy and discussed the lords and ladies who would be present today. They were especially interested in the lords, of course, because both were hoping to make a good match, although what that meant differed greatly for each of them. Raissel was a romantic who dreamt of handsome heroes who would sweep her off her feet, whereas Hethlil was entirely practical and almost solely concerned with improving her position. A year ago, Lothíriel would have dismissed this as shallow and mercenary, but she now knew Hethlil and her situation well enough to understand why marrying well was so important to her. Hethlil had lost her father on the Pelennor Fields, and her father's younger brother had inherited their lands, cutting off Hirluin's only daughter from the estate, and leaving her with no more than a name and a modest dowry. The brothers had never been on good terms, and Hethlil knew she had little hope of wielding any influence in Pinnath Gelin. Thus Hethlil's best chance to put her talents to use was to make an advantageous match. It was a most unjust state of affairs and fortunate that Hethlil was as lovely as she was intelligent. Surely, thought Lothíriel, as she laced Hethlil into her dress, green cloth and red hair contrasting with creamy-white skin, her friend could charm anyone she set out to conquer.

oOo

Despite all her good intentions, it took only about half an hour for Lothíriel to regret coming to the tea party, let alone agree to host it. Queen Arwen, though thoroughly sensible in every other regard, was fond of needlework and often arranged for these sessions as entertainment and a way to connect with the ladies at court. Éowyn always found an excuse to skip them; Lothíriel joined out of duty, but reluctantly so. The activity had always seemed a complete waste of time to her, although she at times enjoyed the company and the idle bits of chatter. However, without Arwen to guide the conversation, some of the guests proved much more tiresome than usual. The offending party was a group of bosom friends, all around Hethlil's age or a bit older, who had decided to join their King and Queen for no other reason that Lothíriel could discern than to throw themselves into the path of powerful men. Among them was Lady Glavriel - unmarried, independently wealthy and quite attractive if you were into that sort of polished perfection - whom Lothíriel despised. Lady Glavriel had already listed the assets of every single lord present, all the while comparing them to her brother's substantial wealth, when she finally moved off the subject and began considering some of the more personal qualities of her unsuspecting targets.

"Éomer of Rohan especially is cutting a very fine figure this year. Is he still unattached, you think?"

"'Éomer'," huffed Lothíriel, thoroughly fed up with the vulgarity of the conversation and no longer in a mood to censure her thoughts. "You are calling him Éomer?"

"To be sure," said Lady Glavriel. "I hear all of his men do it."

" _I_ don't do it."

Lady Glavriel looked taken aback at her direct speech and then smiled pointedly. "Well, you are just a child."

There were a few tittering giggles in the group, but Lothíriel could not pinpoint the culprits before they managed to smother them. Unsure how to answer the challenge and not really caring to anyway, she focused on her pillowcase.

"It must be lovely to be so young and unburdened," mused Lady Glavriel aloud. "So… free, don't you agree?"

"Oh indeed," said Lothíriel, a little bemused at this sudden redirection of the conversation.

"I remember when I was young I would just spend hours playing Barley Break and How Many Miles to Minas Tirith… Do you enjoy games, Princess?"

"One would have to be without sense not to enjoy some game or other," said Lothíriel. More tittering giggles followed her answer.

"Yes," Lady Glavriel paused, "of course you do. And a bit of Lords and Ladies too, I imagine… but as you get older you lose your taste for these amusements. Well, there are so many other activities that demand one's attention, and behaviour that is excusable in a girl unfortunately is not always so easy to forgive in a young woman."

Lothíriel bit back a nasty comment and just gave a non-committal purse of the lips.

"But you don't have to worry about this yet, of course. How old are you now, Princess?"

"I just celebrated my nineteenth year. You were at the feast," said Lothíriel, annoyed.

"Oh, to be sure. Yes, I must have forgotten, you are a woman grown now. May age bring you wisdom, my lady." The traditional wish sounded like a taunt.

oOo

"The cheek of that woman," fumed Lothíriel. "A child? Play at Lords and Ladies? And Éomer, indeed. My father has all but adopted him, and even I would never refer to him as just Éomer."

"She was dreadful," said Raissel wholeheartedly. "Let us never invite her again when the queen is not present."

"I did not even understand half of what she was talking about." Lothíriel sprawled out on the bed and punched a pillow for good measure. "Where does she get such fancies anyway?"

"Lady Glavriel was in fine form today," said Hethlil calmly. "But, Lothíriel, and please do not bite my head off, because I should have told you so you could have been prepared, these were not random jabs. Lady Glavriel meant to catch you out."

"Catch me out?"

"There have been rumours."

"What are you saying?" said Lothíriel, dismay creeping into her voice.

"We have not credited them; and I do not think they have reached your father's ears yet," said Hethlil quickly. "Lothíriel, a few weeks ago people began whispering that the Princess of Dol Amroth was involved in a dalliance of sorts; a love affair that went sour. And um," her friend hesitated for a moment. "Some purported there may have been more than one. That you had been seen riding and walking out with several men without any sort of chaperone."

"That is true," mumbled Lothíriel, heart plummeting down her chest.

"Lothíriel, you are jesting, surely," said Hethlil, horrified.

"Why no, of course I haven't done anything bad. And there's been no sour love affairs, let alone several" said Lothíriel, a little appalled at the very idea. "But the walking out, and the riding, yes. I wonder how she knows."

Hethlil sat down on their bed and hugged herself. "Anyone could have told. I am so sorry, Lothíriel – yet you know how rumours spread. Really, it was unthinking of you to so risk your reputation."

"Oh, Lothíriel, your father would be most upset," added Raissel, who had always been a little scared of Prince Imrahil.

"There were some stranger tales as well," continued Hethlil. "It was said that you were expelled from Edoras last year, for interfering with the king's horses and possible… lewd behaviour. No one seemed to give much credit to that, however. It would have been much more of a scandal, and Éowyn would surely not have welcomed you in her house."

"How singular," said Lothíriel, careful to keep her expression blank.

Hethlil went on. "If indeed there is truth to some of the rumours, though, it will be harder to quell them. You must better yourself at once."

Lothíriel looked between her friends, both wearing very earnest expressions. However much Lothíriel loved Arwen, and Hethlil and Raissel too, her position had brought her into a prominence she had not expected and left her feeling quite unprepared. Last year, after the celebrations were over and the age of restoration begun, when more lords and ladies were returning to Minas Tirith every day, all eyes had turned to Queen Arwen and her maidens; and many things Lothíriel had done unthinkingly for years – only Aunt Ivriniel had cared –suddenly felt like serious transgressions. Her coming-of-age last month had made it worse still. Yet Emyn Arnen had seemed so far from court and its tiresome scrutiny… She took a deep breath, swallowed, and turned around to study herself in the looking glass. "Who needs a reputation when you have money?" she said finally.

Hethlil gave a weak smile at her reflection. "I don't think you will like the men who come after you for your money."

"I will like them a great deal better than the men who will pursue a woman for her spotless reputation," Lothíriel said decisively.

oOo

Eventually Hethlil and Lothíriel decided that it was best to pretend there were neither rumours nor a hush-up, and meet any further jabs from Lady Glavriel with polite befuddlement. There was little chance of more confrontations for the moment anyway, as the girls were kept busy entertaining the guests and ensuring all arrivals were settling in properly. There was also a constant influx of supplies to be dealt with. On the second day, to Lothíriel's exasperation, another wagon rode into Emyn Arnen courtesy of Aunt Ivriniel. Among the delicacies and wines, there was a chest intended for her personally. The note attached was brief and succinct:

 _Lothíriel: some suitable items for you to wear while the ambassadors are there. Do not forget your duty to your father, and Dol Amroth._

Lothíriel rolled her eyes, while Raissel and Hethlil excitedly went through the contents of the chest.

"Oh, look at this beautiful gown, Lothíriel. The fabric is just exquisite."

"Your aunt has excellent taste. I wish my mother had such a sense of style."

"As if I cannot procure proper garments myself," huffed Lothíriel. "Why, I have been ordering my own dresses for a year now."

"Yes, but these are lovely. This blue one with the silver bodice especially; it will look wonderful with your eyes and colouring."

"There is nothing here that doesn't require a corset," lamented Lothíriel, determined to be displeased. "Oh look." She held out the offending garments. "She thought of that, too."

"Well, you are not an Elf, Lothíriel. It is the fashion," said Hethlil.

"There is another case underneath this cloth. Can I open it?" asked Raissel.

"Go ahead." Lothíriel gave a disinterested wave. She had just discovered some soft doeskin leggings that would do very well for riding and tumbling.

"Oh!" exclaimed Raissel, "How beautiful."

Lothíriel turned around to see her friend holding a string of exquisite silver-grey pearls offset by a sapphire pendant in the shape of a teardrop. For a moment she forgot to breathe and her heart hammered in her chest.

"Put them back," said Lothíriel, a tremor in her voice.

"Do you not like them?" asked Raissel, taken aback.

"They are not mine."

"Are you sure? Your father's crest is embossed in the silver here… and a year, I think. T.A. 2985. I think these must have belonged to your mother."

Hethlil got to her feet quickly, took the case out of Raissel's hands, and placed it back in the chest. "Perhaps your aunt made a mistake," she said and reached for Lothíriel.

Lothíriel snatched her hand away. "Excuse me. I should…" Unable to think of an excuse and not believing it mattered at this point, she got to her feet and left the room. She closed the door and leaned against it, trying to regain her composure, and therefore could not help overhearing her friends' frantic whispers.

"I heard Lady Mirdis ran away with a pirate."

"Hush, Raissel. Those were falsehoods spread by the enemy. No one believed them."

"Some people did."

"Not us. We never believed them," hissed Hethlil. "And please have the sense not to repeat this in front of Lothíriel."

"I would never do that." And after a moment. "Could we just have one more look, you think?"

* * *

 _A/N As always, thank you to all reviewers, and to those who favourited and followed this week. They are always my happiest emails! PoemstheEarth, thank you for your comments! I'm really glad to hear Lothiriel and Eowyn's relationship is working for you; and I hope you'll continue to enjoy Lothiriel. I've been bringing out the allusions to Emma a bit more in this chapter. :-)_

 _Thanks also to Willow41z, eschscholzia and Lialathuveril for reading an early draft of this chapter and giving me some helpful suggestions in regard to Lothiriel's characterisation._

 _I will be away on a research trip this month, so updates may be a little more sporadic! I apologise for any extra wait in advance._


	9. Lovely and Accomplished Young Women

**Lovely and Accomplished Young Women**

With the arrival of the King and Queen of Gondor, accompanied by what appeared to be half the Gondorian court, Éomer knew the quiet and peaceful days with his family had come to an end. Emyn Arnen felt suddenly cramped and small as it was now overflowing with guests from all parts of Gondor and Anórien, all who seemed to have some business with him (or at the very least an unwed daughter or sister to put forward for his consideration, in the characteristically oblique Gondorian manner, of course). Since the weather continued to be favourable, some benches and tables were now permanently placed outdoors and breakfast was served in the orangery, while servants prepared the Great Hall for another day of meetings, dinner and entertainment.

It was early morning on the third day since the King and Queen's arrival, and Éomer went through the rich banquet rather despondently, hoping to discover a simple, hearty porridge among the sweetmeats and foreign delicacies. He finally settled on some bread, butter and fruit. As he sat down at a table and began to break his fast, more people found their way down from the house, and the gardens filled with the scent of rich perfumes. Skirts rustled, subdued greetings were exchanged and mingled with the scuttling sounds of insects and other forest animals. In a corner, under an almond tree, Arwen's maidens stood together, whispering and giggling in the way that the Gondorian court considered ladylike and demure, but Éomer privately thought rather nettling. Over the past two weeks, he had grown used to Lothíriel's company, her easy jests and attentions, but he had hardly seen her since the other women had arrived, as if she had suddenly been stolen away to another world. What did they have to discuss so secretively, anyway? Considering his past experiences with Gondorian womanhood, it was probably embroidery, or the hot weather or some such nonsense. Still, he had to admit that the girls presented a very pleasing picture. All three were uncommonly attractive in their own way, perhaps the very reason why they had been selected to be Arwen's closest companions. Not that he suspected the Queen of Gondor was vain or theatrical in any way; but there were few women who could stand next to Arwen Undómiel and not feel fatally overshadowed. The middle one, Lord Húrin's daughter, was perhaps the most beautiful, with ink-black hair and bright eyes in a porcelain doll's face, the very epitome of what his Riders imagined when they spun titillating fantasies of southern beauties. The other girl - he had forgotten her name - was taller and fairer than her companions, with a slim figure, auburn hair and elegant features, softened by a smile that belied the rigidity of her bearing. And then of course there was Lothíriel, brown after a summer spent outdoors, winsome, lithe, full of little graces. Yes, Arwen had chosen well.

Not that he was ogling them. Reluctantly he turned away and was promptly accosted by Adabon, a minor lord from the Tarlang mountain range. Having heard of the decimation of Rohan's cattle-herds, he was eager to promote his region's fine leather-goods. In return perhaps Éomer-King would be willing to lend out a few of his stallions next summer?

Éomer made a polite non-committal remark. Allowing Imrahil a selection of studs to mix into his bloodlines was one thing: Dol Amroth had the largest cavalry in Gondor and breeding traditions that went back for generations. However, most of Gondor's army consisted of infantry and naval forces, and many of the provincial and coastal lords had no more than a handful of mounted knights at their command, if any. There was no way he could entrust any of his valuable warhorses to them, even for a short period. Not until they improved the conditions of their stables and trained some proper grooms, anyway. He had barely got two steps when he noticed that Lord Glirion was trying to attract his attention. No doubt about that wool he seemed to want to buy so badly. He looked around for an escape and across the room Princess Lothíriel caught his eye and sent him a warm, inviting smile.

"I should present myself to Queen Arwen's maidens," he announced to Éothain beside him. "We have not met in over a year, and it seems to be expected considering the number of lords and ladies who have greeted them as they entered. I suspect it is one of these Gondorian proprieties."

Éothain answered with a knowing grin. "Indeed, my lord. I am sure it would be very proper."

The ladies welcomed them with a curtsy and Lothíriel spoke first. "King Éomer, may I present my friends? This is Raissel, daughter of Lord Húrin, Warden of Minas Tirith, and Lady Hethlil of the Green Hills."

Éomer bowed to the ladies. "We met once in Minas Tirith. I am happy to renew the acquaintance. May I introduce Éothain, captain of my guard?"

The ladies smiled and curtsied again.

"I hope we are not interrupting your conversation."

"Indeed you are not," said Hethlil. "Please join us, my lord. We were just discussing whether there would be any women with the Haradrim ambassadors, but we are all clueless as to their customs. Perhaps you could help us."

"I cannot, I am afraid. I know very little about their culture. All I can tell you is that there were no women among their commanders or soldiers on the battlefield."

"That's probably why we won," said Lothíriel, almost too soft to hear. The other girls looked rather scandalized, but Éomer found himself grinning.

"To be sure, they must be very different," said Raissel.

"Why yes and no, I would think. Many of their ruling houses can trace ancestry to our forefathers, and especially the northern and western tribes were under Gondor's rule as often as not," said Hethlil. Éomer appraised her with interest; it was a connection not many Gondorians liked to dwell on, he had found, and he had not expected a lady of the court to speak of it so casually.

"When I was young, we still occasionally received players and merchants from Haradwaith in Dol Amroth," said Lothíriel. "They spoke our tongue, and though their garb was strange, many looked not unlike our own people."

"Some may look like Stonelanders, my lady, but do not be fooled. They are different inside; brutal, barbarous and cursed to feel neither love nor pain. I hear they mix molten lava into their wines, and can live off fire and flames," said Éothain.

"Éothain, are you trying to frighten us with your nonsense?" grinned Lothíriel. "There are fire-eaters among the Haradrim, but it is a mere trick known in Belfalas as well. It does not actually sustain them."

"Pity. It'd have been good news for Princess Éowyn's storage rooms," commented Hethlil drily.

Éothain laughed as Lady Hethlil rose to her feet to address a newly arrived couple. After an exchange of greetings she graciously led them to the banquet. Lothíriel followed them with her eyes while Raissel placed her hands into her lap.

"The weather has been very fine," said Raissel after a moment of silence. "Do you have mild autumns in Rohan as well, my lord?"

"Not really," Éomer said. He winced when he saw Raissel's uncertain expression; but he felt he had said enough on the subject of weather in front of Lothíriel to last him a lifetime. Fortunately, Éothain was happy to oblige and describe the rains and storms, and the cold, damp nights of the north.

"Ithilien is always wondrous fair in the autumn; the fairest place in all of Gondor," said Raissel, turning to him again. "Do you enjoy the woods, my lord?"

"The woods are fair indeed," Éomer said, not sure what else to say without causing offense.

"Fair, yes, and old, and so beautiful and lonely under the light of the moon that it could break your heart. At times I feel I can hardly breathe," spoke Lothíriel pensively. Éomer stared at her, wondering, not for the first time, what exactly went on in the mind of Dol Amroth's contrary princess.

Meanwhile, the sweet-smelling fruits he had laden onto his plate had attracted the interest of some rather large bees. No, not bees: these had strangely long bodies, black wings and distorted orange stripes. Perhaps they were a type of hornet. Two or three had crawled onto his plate and one was just stationing himself – rather audaciously – on his last remaining pomegranate. He flicked it off with his fingers and put the fruit in his mouth.

"Please, be careful, my lord" warned Raissel. "They are not easily cowed, and their sting hurts awfully."

"I am merely defending my breakfast."

"Raissel is right; they are persistent and can even be vindictive," said Lothíriel. "Best to just suffer their impudence. I know it must be hard." The girl bit her lip and a "for you" remained unspoken but not unheard.

Soon the flying insect, whatever it was, returned and settled on the orange peels left on the side of his plate. He swatted at it without thinking. A mere flash of a second later he felt a searing pain in his palm, as if an arrow had pierced it – an arrow dipped in poison and lit on fire. "Biccan sunu!" he swore before he could stop himself.

Raissel wringed her hands in horror; Lothíriel just laughed.

"Why, I do believe it managed to wound the King of Rohan. And on your guard too, Éothain," she teased his captain.

Éomer turned his hand to look at the sting; it was raised and white, and a trickle of blood ran down his palm. "It does not hurt much at all," he said, hoping the strain in his voice was unnoticeable to anyone but himself. "Certainly not much more than a bee sting."

"You must be jesting," a most unladylike snort of disbelief accompanied the exclamation. "When I was stung for the first time, I became so fearful of the beasts that I ran the other way whenever one came near me. At some point Amrothos vowed to hide one in my boots every time I failed to behave with dignity. I must have been stung at least five times that summer."

"That was cruel," gaped Raissel.

"Yes, he was a delightful child, my brother. Although I do suppose it worked. By the time the harvest came around, I was brave enough to catch some myself and unleash them on Amrothos instead."

Éomer, meanwhile, tried to squeeze his hand to relieve some of the pressure.

"My lord, are you well?" asked Raissel with some concern.

"I can't seem to bend my fingers," said Éomer. The searing pain had begun to burn and throb.

"Oh, that's because the venom is spreading," explained Lothíriel. "It will go numb in an hour or so. With a little bit of luck it will stay contained in your lower arm, and you will just experience some stiffness for a few days."

"A few days?! And you let these just fly around your gardens?" Éomer let out another series of profanities. It was not as if the girls could understand him anyway.

"What is happening here?" Hethlil had returned, a bemused expression on her face.

"King Éomer was stung by a helethvalen," answered Lothíriel before he could say anything. "He is very upset with Gondor."

"I am fine."

"Oh dear," said Hethlil, She briskly grabbed his arm and twisted his palm so she could examine the sting. He winced. What was it with Gondorian ladies and their desire to manhandle him? She must have seen something in his eyes because she let him go, blushed and said: "Apologies, my lord."

"It's quite all right," he said through gritted teeth.

She picked up his hand again, more tentative and gentle this time. "It looks fairly normal. Some show much more severe responses, especially if they have not been exposed to the sting before. Still, best treat it now and we can stop the venom from spreading further."

"You can treat it?"

"No great reflection on my healing skills, alas. Any child in Gondor knows how to treat a helethvalen sting."

Éomer cast an evil glare at Lothíriel, who did not even have the grace to look guilty.

"Let us go inside. The cool air will help with the nausea."

oOo

"Here, just gently press this to the wound. It will draw out the poison."

Éomer placed the strange yellow fruit gingerly on his palm, and immediately felt some relief. "What is that?" he wondered.

"Just an iced lemon. Some say onion works just as well, but this smells a lot sweeter."

"I thank you, yes." They were sitting at a small wooden table in the kitchens. Lady Hethlil had at first tried to lead them to the Healer's quarters, but Éomer decided that quite enough fuss had been made already.

"Are you feeling dizzy, or nauseated at all?" asked Hethlil. "The cook can heat up some chicken broth, if you wish, or I could get you some bread."

"Some water, perhaps?"

"Of course," the girl disappeared into the scullery, and soon returned with a mug of water, a small round bread and a bowl of porridge. "In case you change your mind," she said, placing it on the table.

"You are very kind. I fear I am keeping you from your breakfast." He broke the bread and offered her half.

"Thank you, my lord, I am fine."

"But you have not yet had the opportunity to break your fast. I did not see you eat or drink at all."

"You are very observant."

Éomer turned to rumination. Now he thought of it, he could not remember ever seeing the three girls eat. "Do the ladies of Gondor not get hungry?"

"Would you prefer the honest answer?"

"Yes. After all, I am a stranger to these lands."

Another one of those generous smiles lit up Hethlil's face. "You are indeed, my lord, or you would know not to demand an honest answer from a lady. But very well. Lothíriel, Raissel and I eat early in the kitchen every morning, because it is much easier to be a gracious hostess if you are not eating yourself, and," she grimaced, "to avoid the considerable censure of being regarded as a glutton."

"So… You come to breakfast even though you have already broken your fast?"

"Yes, indeed. We dress up, receive and direct the guests, and we attempt to keep the men from focusing on business alone."

"As a pretty distraction," he concluded.

She slanted him a searching glance. "Well, you are not wrong, but it involves a bit more than that. We are there to help, entertain, and amuse, to facilitate introductions if necessary and intervene before any conflict might arise."

It sounded much like the responsibilities of the Lady of the Mead-Hall, although she performed her task with assurance and complete transparency, at the centre of the ceremony, not whispering and gossiping in a corner. Also, he doubted his sister, who liked to eat and do as she pleased, would happily take a hurried and secretive breakfast in the kitchens, so that she may appear elegant and dainty in public.

"And if your guests refuse to participate in pleasant and trivial conversations, you allow them to get stung by hornets and subtly whisk them away."

"Helethvalen," corrected Hethlil. "I do not think there is a Westron name for them." She laughed as she wrapped a poultice around his palm. "That would indeed be very devious of us, but I'm afraid it was unplanned. Why, do you feel you deserved such callous treatment?"

"I refused to talk of the weather."

"A great offence indeed!"

"I apologise, my lady," said Éomer. "In my defense I was far from the only offender. I have never been to a gathering like this before, and I am not quite sure what is expected."

"That is obvious," said Hethlil.

"Oh?"

"My lord, I apologise. That was too forward," she looked a little flushed, but he waved for her to go on and she did so, speaking more hesitantly. "You were invited to a trading council and it seems you brought only warriors with you. To an outsider that might appear as if you are not overly interested in contracts."

"There are no such distinctions in the Mark. Many of my men have lordships of their own, and indeed the right and power to barter the resources of their region."

She looked at him with interest. "I see; forgive me. There is so little to be found on the customs of your country, even in the libraries of Minas Tirith."

"Your inference is no less true, though. We need nothing from Harad. In fact, we have only ever traded with passing merchants and near our borders. It has been centuries since we imported goods from places further south than Minas Tirith."

"You need peace from Harad. As do we," said Hethlil.

"We have peace with these men. They surrendered."

"A surrender is not a peace treaty."

"Neither is a trading agreement "

"Well, my lord, I have heard it say nothing so much discourages war as mutual economic interest."

"I still hope that the absence of Dark Lords and wraiths will do the trick."

"That too, certainly," said Hethlil, a smile on her face. "But would it not be best to bet on more than one theory?"

"We barely produce sufficient to feed our own, and we do not have the resources to support the import of luxury goods. Besides, we do not share Gondor's love for silks and jewels."

"There are many different peoples living in Gondor. My father's people make their home in the hills, and are not so unlike yours. Although I suppose they are my uncle's people now" – her eyes darkened for a fleeting moment, then she recovered herself – "my father seemed more herdsman than Lord when I was young. There were weeks, months even, when all we did was chase sheep and geese. Anyway, Harad is not all sand and gemstones. There are jungles, too and rich deltas near the sea, where grains grow cheap and fast. Those lands have been spared the destruction visited upon ours, but the southern armies were decimated. My guess is that they will be looking to sell, and sell cheap."

The girl – nay, lady – punctuated her speech with confident gestures. Indeed there were different peoples living in Gondor, and different women too. "Hm," was all he said.

She studied his face. "I apologise, my lord! I am neglecting my duties as a gracious hostess, and, as you so astutely established, a pretty distraction."

"That is all right. I shall practice and tomorrow we shall speak of nothing but the weather."

She laughed and inclined her head.

"My lady, you have been very forthright with me," said Éomer. "I appreciate it."

"Grace is important, but so is flexibility," said Hethlil. "I am glad to be of service."

* * *

 _A/N Well, it's very early in the morning and the first day of my conference, but I found a moment to finish this chapter on the plane last night so here you are. Thank you, as always, for the reviews and the follows, and I am curious to hear what you people think of this development! Anthi35 – yes, Lothiriel will be going through some things in this story and she's discovering life as a (grown) princess is not as simple as she would like it to be. But as you say, she is young and resilient and all may be well in the end ;-)_

 _I'll refrain from translating Eomer's Rohirric profanity here (the meaning is not hard to guess), but it's Old English and may well not have meant then what it means now. The problem is, we don't really know much about Old English profanity, as there is not a lot of swearing in the texts that we have and many words and expressions that became vulgar later on were actually perfectly acceptable to say in the Anglo-Saxon period._

 _Helethvalen are an invention of my own, inspired by childhood memories of the then common myths about the dreadful potency of the sting of the "frelon" (the European hornet) & all the times I was stung in the jungle by who knows what. The name is a made-up Sindarin compound meaning yellowjacket, which is how the common wasp is known here in the USA. I once again had Eldhoron's help with constructing it._


	10. Men of Sense Do Not Want Silly Wives

**Men of Sense Do Not Want Silly Wives**

"You cannot be in here, Amrothos," said Lothíriel with a grimace of annoyance, as her brother stretched out on her bed.

"Why, I can't be in my own little sister's room now? Your bed is much nicer and a great deal larger than mine. A grave injustice, if you ask me."

"You know very well that is because this is not just my room. Hethlil and Raissel sleep in that bed as well, which makes your behaviour completely inappropriate."

"I won't tell if you won't," said Amrothos, but he got off the bed and started pacing about the room. Lothíriel, meanwhile, stood in front of the mirror carefully teasing the tangles out of her hair.

"Do you have anything to eat?" asked Amrothos, casually lifting up and inspecting their trinkets and possessions spread around the room.

"Put that down," said Lothíriel in a commanding voice as her brother took one of Raissel's silver combs and ran his fingers over the engraving. "And go find the kitchens if you are hungry."

"This is no way to treat your favourite brother after a tragically lengthy separation."

Lothíriel rolled her eyes as she arranged her curls, pulling down on a particularly stubborn one that simply insisted on sticking straight up.

"Stop staring at your reflection and entertain me," said Amrothos, coming up behind her and examining her with a critical eye. "Your hair does not look too terrible. You'll be a credit to me yet some day."

"If you are going to be rude, I had much rather you stay away."

"Loth. Darling sister," he deftly captured her arm and dragged her away from the glass. "I have been here for almost the entire day and you have not yet had time for me." He swivelled her around so she stood beside the rocking chair near the fireplace and kissed her brow. "Indeed, I have a high mind not to hand over any of the presents I brought you."

"You have brought me presents?"

"Yes indeed. Did you forget I stopped by Dol Amroth on my way here?"

"For the last time, Amrothos. Dol Amroth is not exactly on the way if you are sailing from Pelargir to the Harlond."

Her brother, who had been in charge of the reconstruction of the fleet and in particular her father's flagship, had –in typical fashion- managed to wrap up the whole project eight weeks before the estimated date and had then –in even more typical fashion- commandeered the flagship for himself and sailed her down to Dor-en-Ernil, informing their father of the detour only after he had made port in Linhir. Imrahil had been less than pleased about missing the maiden voyage; but had borne it well after he realized he now had a massive ship to sail up and down the Anduin. For all their rumoured elven heritage, there was a fair bit of pirate blood in Dol Amroth's line of princes, and in their family her father and youngest brother definitely bore the brunt of it.

"So I have been told," said that brother now. "But you are about to reap the benefits of my geographical confusion, so quit the sanctimonious lecture and sit down." He pushed her down into the armchair and rummaged through his belt pouch.

"Ah yes. Here is the sketch of the new princeling I drew up. I had an idle moment and I knew you would want to see."

"Oh!" said Lothíriel happily, touched by the thoughtful gesture. Underneath his posturing, Amrothos really was the most generous and considerate of all of them. It was no coincidence that he was the only one in the family to keep up a regular correspondence with all his siblings. "He is so lovely! Even more handsome than Alphros was when he was a babe."

"Yes, it seems so. I'm afraid it is not a very good likeness, but I had not the heart to draw a more accurate one. He has Erchirion's nose, you see, poor child."

Lothíriel tried to swat him with the parchment but Amrothos just laughed and turned away.

"And here are letters for you, from Galweth and Alphros..." - Lothíriel could just make out the childish scribble addressed to Aunt Tiri, as her nephew still called her - "… and one from Aunt Ivriniel as well" – it seemed almost the size of a manuscript, but Lothíriel accepted it with a smile and hugged her new treasures to her chest.

"You are a very dutiful brother."

"Yes, remember that," said Amrothos with a smirk and went to open the shutters, only to hastily close them again. "Stars! It's Lady Eníril and her husband. Whatever are they doing here?"

"The same as anyone, I imagine. Mind, their holdings are near Pelargir, and were raided by the Corsairs during the war. The stakes are higher for them than most."

"Will they be at dinner tonight, Loth?"

"Why yes, of course."

Amrothos let out a curse, and then peered out of the window again.

"Whatever did you do now?" asked Lothíriel with some curiosity. Lady Eníril was a kindly woman, of impeccable composure and reputation, but nearing sixty and rather angular. Not one of Amrothos's usual victims, or conquests either.

"Nothing that concerns you. Just make sure to seat them on the other side of the hall, and arrange separate entertainment for them… Could you have their breakfast served in their rooms? Wait, is that lady Glavriel over there?" her brother added with some dismay.

Lothíriel groaned. "You ask too much."

"Where Glavriel is concerned, one cannot possibly ask too much."

Lothíriel moved to stand beside him and followed his gaze to where Glavriel was holding court among her admirers, decked out in her family's colours and with so many jewels in her hair Lothíriel had to wonder she did not topple over. "Give me a list of people you cannot share a table with within the hour and I will see what I can do," she said.

"I love it when you owe me favours," said her brother.

"This one is for Éowyn, not you," said Lothíriel, firmly closing the shutters and pushing her brother away from the window. She had no desire to add to the burdens on the Princess of Ithilien's shoulders by making the council a backdrop for one of Amrothos's feuds. "Now get out so I can read my letters."

"And what about my entertainment, little sister?"

Lothíriel was momentarily tempted to give him another shove out the door, but she knew her brother was unlikely to accept such a dismissal. Besides, she had missed him too. "Hethlil, Raissel and I are free after supper," she said after a pause. There were no entertainments planned, and King Elessar and Queen Arwen were to spend the night at the elven colony. Tomorrow would be the formal ball to welcome the Haradrim, whom they were expecting sometime in the early afternoon. "If you promise to be pleasant, we can have a small party in the drawing room. You should bring Erchirion. And King Éomer, if he is willing," she added almost absentmindedly.

"King Éomer, huh? Are you certain?"

She frowned. "Of course. He is your friend, right? Is there a problem?"

"None at all. I love intimate parties," said Amrothos breezily.

oOo

"Lothíriel? Are you busy?" Raissel walked in and Lothíriel put down her aunt's letter (she had just gotten to the section about the importance of presenting a warm but correct manner to the party from Haradwaith, and just how such a feat was to be accomplished) with some relief.

"Am I needed?"

"Queen Arwen and I went over the table-setting for the banquet earlier, and all does not seem to be entirely right," said Raissel hesitantly. Lothíriel knew that not entirely right was Raissel's gracious way of saying a complete mess, and her heart sank. "Lothíriel, did you not help Princess Éowyn draw it up?"

"No, I appointed the quarters, and oversaw the preparation of the guest rooms," said Lothíriel. And afterwards she had spent the afternoon lazing in the sun and watching King Éomer and Erchirion at swordplay, and forgotten all about going over the seating charts with Éowyn. Anyway, it was hardly her fault. Éowyn had been just as eager to abandon the confines of the house for the yard.

"Queen Arwen sent me to find the princess to make some changes together, but I am not sure what to do or how to tell her…" Raissel looked nervous. "Oh Lothíriel, could you do it, please? I will help Hethlil with the accounts."

Lothíriel sighed. Éowyn, like her brother, seemed to have no idea just how intimidating she could be. With her regal appearance and that matter-of-fact style of conversation, the slayer of the Witch-King tended to take the people of Gondor completely off-guard. Fortunately, Lothíriel had long ago resolved she was simply too stubborn to be intimidated. She knew this meant she at times overshouted herself, and that was indeed regrettable, but timidity was worse and, considering her ancestry, unforgivable.

"I will do it. Mind you, I do not want to have to do another sum for the rest of the week," said Lothíriel. The deal was not quite fair considering the responsibility had been hers in the first place, but Raissel would never think of that.

"Thank you, thank you," said her friend, breathless, and hurried off to find Hethlil while Lothíriel went in search of Éowyn, whom she found stealing a precious moment with little Elboron in the nursery.

"Éowyn, could we have a look at the table-setting for tomorrow, perhaps?"

"I suppose we must."

The plans were quickly found and Lothíriel bent over them, trying to puzzle out what had so disturbed Raissel. Her finger paused at a cluster of names in the centre. "You put Lord Echadir and Lady Nelwen next to Lord Ferion and Lady Redhedis?"

"It seemed reasonable. They are neighbours, and equal in rank and standing."

"Éowyn, did you not hear last winter that Lady Nelwen hired a maid that Lady Redhedis had dismissed? And that Lady Redhedis was most distraught over the whole affair?"

"I do not listen to gossip like that."

"You will never be any good at this if you do not listen to gossip," said Lothíriel dubiously.

"I do not see why it matters, anyway. A lady sends her maid packing and is then offended that she dare seek employment elsewhere?

"It suggests Lady Nelwen believed Lady Redhedis to have misjudged the situation," she lowered her voice, "and Lord Ferion was said to have a particular liking for the girl…" Éowyn just gave her an annoyed look. "Never mind. We can easily swap them with Lord Rúdhon and Lady Lithwen here." She studied the chart more carefully. "Éowyn! You put Lord Awarthon near the door, at the lowest table. He should be at one of the first: you know that he has a very rich estate to the northwest of Osgiliath."

"An estate that he abandoned during the war when he fled west."

"He is not young, and never was a fighter. He is an accomplished scholar, though. He improved on the translation of many old manuscripts for Uncle Denethor."

"He would have been stripped of his title in the Mark. What is a lord who will not fight for his own holding?"

"That is not how it works in Gondor. Birth is birth, and blood is blood, and not all men who do not take to warfare are unfit to rule." Éowyn pursed her lips in haughty disapproval. "Please, Éowyn. I know Faramir holds him in esteem regardless of his deeds."

That seemed to have the desired effect. "Yet I still need to reserve a seat or two at the high table, in case Legolas and Gimli decide to return with the king and queen tomorrow."

"Yes, of course. Let's see what we can do. Ah, we can bump my brothers; they don't deserve to be there. Erchirion can join Lord Awarthon here, and they can discuss books… And," she said, suddenly struck by an idea and clapping her hands, "that means I can sit next to King Éomer."

Éowyn raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Aha. And how does that help?"

"It will give people something to gossip about, and if we have overlooked anything else, it may well be attributed to my ambition. Everyone wins. Except myself, I suppose."

"Poor Lothíriel. Is sitting next to my brother such a punishment?"

Lothíriel found herself grin. "Not such a punishment," she said. Lady Glavriel's envy alone would be worth it.

oOo

The drawing room, meant for private entertainment, was in a secluded part of the house, far away from most of the guests not belonging to the immediate family. Looking forward to a more informal get-together, Lothíriel had changed out of her gown after dinner, put on a simple primrose chiffon dress and unfastened her braids. Hethlil had donned something of a similar style, but Raissel had fussed over her appearance for what seemed like an hour, insecure about the company and the level of formality. Her friend had a tendency to be quite taken with all handsome young men, and her brothers were no exception, nor –Lothíriel suspected- was the King of Rohan, who was set to be most of the ladies' prime target at the ball tomorrow. She pursed her lips against a smile at the thought, remembering dancing with King Éomer as a dubious privilege at best.

The atmosphere was easy and convivial, and within moments Lothíriel felt herself unwind. Amrothos was narrating his spontaneous sailing trip to Dol Amroth with grand gestures in a series of anecdotes that were shamelessly close to being inappropriate, while his siblings interjected with the occasional mocking remark, and Raissel dutifully fulfilled the part of adoring audience. Meanwhile, Hethlil was sitting in the window seat with King Éomer in deep conversation. Every now and then Lothíriel could hear soft laughter carry across the room. Taken aback by this development, Lothíriel observed them covertly while pretending to be diverted by another one of Amrothos's tales. It did not even seem like Hethlil was doing most of the talking! King Éomer appeared chatty and animated in a way she had only ever seen him with her brothers or his sister, when he thought she was not paying attention. How had her friend managed that?

She got up to prepare another carafe of wine, adding a few more splashes of water than she had done last time. ("A trick unbecoming to a taverner, but imminently useful to a lady who wishes to avoid overt riotousness and the potential for disorderly conduct," had written Aunt Ivriniel. "Be sure you are unobserved. Men do not like to be confronted with their limits." The older she got, the more Lothíriel felt equal amounts respect and shock at her aunt's shrewdness). When she returned, Hethlil and Éomer had joined the rest of the party and Amrothos seemed finally to have run out of egotistical tales.

"So, what has been happening here while I was away? Did I miss any great scandals? An impassionate duel over breakfast?"

"I think the one near diplomatic disaster we had was when a helethvalen stung King Éomer."

"Oh hm. Do I need to start catching them again?"

"There seems to be no need," said Lothíriel. "King Éomer's behaviour since the incident has been both decorous and magnanimous. There was no observable shrieking or flailing, and he even left his breakfast for his attacker to feast on."

Éomer raised his glass to her with a grimace, while Amrothos grinned. "And this is the sole event worth reporting? Come, what have you been doing?"

"We've been quite busy," answered Raissel shyly after a moment's pause. "So many people have come and stayed. There was a reception on the first day. Queen Arwen and Princess Éowyn received the guests, and little Elboron was officially presented. And then of course we had tea with all the ladies, and we embroidered linen with desert flowers for the Haradrim ambassadors. There were some cushions that came out particularly pretty…"

Lothíriel puffed her cheeks. "Please, Raissel, you are boring us just talking about it."

Raissel instantly fell silent and blushed, and for a moment none spoke while a tendril of guilt seemed to coil its way around Lothíriel's throat.

"It was a very pleasant afternoon," said Hethlil, a little coolly.

Lothíriel did her best to ignore the momentary awkwardness and turned to her friend: "Oh come, Hethlil. It was not. Besides, even you cannot mean to say that you truly enjoy embroidery. After all, you are so practical and it is an entirely useless art.

"Far from entirely useless," said Hethlil, her voice a little strained.

Lothíriel sank unto the floor and folded her legs beneath her. "I suppose there is some merit in prettifying things."

"It is not all about prettifying, Lothíriel," said Hethlil. "There is power in symbols. Yet I was not talking of aesthetics. Those who can make fine stitches on linen are also better equipped to sew a man's skin back together after battle."

"Hethlil! What a thing to say!" said Lothíriel with shock.

"During the siege on Minas Tirith, Raissel and I aided in the Houses of Healing. The skill came in very useful for us both."

Lothíriel was thunderstruck. "You never told me this."

"It is not something anyone likes to speak of, or remember at all."

Lothíriel stared at her friends in awe, unsure how to comport herself or how to process this new information about her companions. Hethlil and Raissel had seen the Battle of the Pelennor! They had despaired with the rest of the city when the armies of the Witch-King amassed at the gate, felt the swooping relief at the arrival of the Rohirrim, and then an almost absurd hope, when all seemed lost and Elessar for the first time had unfurled the ancient banner of the Kings of Gondor. Oh yes, Lothíriel knew the story well. But it was more than a story for her friends. They had helped, perhaps even saved some lives amidst so much loss. It was hard to imagine, as they were sitting here, poised and dressed in fine garments, hair elegantly curled. Hethlil, perhaps, but shy and gentle Raissel, who startled when Faramir's dogs barked too loudly and still preferred to ride a pony?

"You stayed in the city?" Lothíriel asked Raissel. "Why did you not leave when the women and children were evacuated?"

"Minas Tirith is my home. Where else would I have gone?" said Raissel softly. Then she rose to her feet and curtsied. "Please excuse me, I feel tired."

The party broke up soon after that. Lothíriel felt the King of Rohan's piercing eyes on her as she bade him goodnight, but she had no wish to see their expression, so she kept her own gaze demurely lowered. Sometimes protocol was rather useful.

"Let's stay awhile," said Amrothos, when all others had departed. "And have another drink. After all, we are young."

Lothíriel was not much in the mood for her brother's company, but neither did she feel like following Hethlil and Raissel back to their shared quarters. She let herself be sat down and Amrothos pushed a refilled glass in her hand.

"Don't look so morose, Loth."

"I am not morose."

"Then there is even less reason for you to look it."

She took a sip of the now quite watery wine and burst out: "Why must Hethlil be so superior all the time?"

Amrothos grinned and leaned back. "I like her," he declared.

"Yes, everyone likes Hethlil," said Lothíriel, not sure if she managed to keep a sulk out of her voice.

"Of course. She is clever."

"I thought all men cared for is a pretty face." Not that Hethlil did not have that. Truly, the world was most unfair.

"My dear sister, the world is full of pretty faces. Even you have one," said Amrothos. "As do I. Something that is so easy to come by quickly loses its mystique."

"There are plenty of clever women, too."

"A defender of your sex now, are you? Of course you are right, and I will not speak against you. Yet there are few quite like Hethlil. And she is sensible too."

"Hmpf. Men do not like women to be cleverer than they are."

Amrothos laughed and poked her in the side. "Little sister. Sometimes I think you may have grown up, but tonight you are proving you are still very silly indeed. It is quite comforting."

"Hmpf." And then. "Stop tickling me."

oOo

When Lothíriel had found her way back to her chambers, Hethlil was waiting in front of the door, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. The girls exchanged cautious greetings, and then fell silent.

"Hethlil, I –-," began Lothíriel, but her friend interrupted.

"Lothíriel, I am sorry. I did not intend to shame you."

"It is all right."

"Your prejudice against the feminine arts gets tedious sometimes, and it was thoughtless of you to put down Raissel when you knew she was nervous. Please let's retire friends."

Lothíriel let out a breath she had not realised she was holding. "Hethlil, of course. It was wrong of me to speak as I did. I hope that Raissel will forgive me."

* * *

 _Unusually Long Author's Note:_

 _Ah yes. Hethlil._

 _I never know quite how much to say in response to your reviews! If you think a writer waxing on about her characters and choices is annoying and you'd rather read the story on its own terms, please feel free to skip the next few paragraphs._

 _I guess after this chapter it may not surprise you to learn that I largely agree with you both, Franklin and JRB: in many ways, Hethlil represents a "better" choice: she's definitely more (emotionally) mature than this Lothiriel, as well as having many other appealing qualities that would make her a good queen and partner. I think a lot of people would choose Hethlil over Lothiriel at this point if they were in Eomer's shoes even if chemistry and attraction were not a factor (and Hethlil, after all, is beautiful too). Anyway, for me, love – especially romantic love but this also goes for marriages of convenience – is never about the objectively best people in a group finding each other (and then second best pairing off with second best, etc). It is much more intangible (and perhaps hormonal) than that. Besides, Eomer has his flaws as well. And so does Hethlil. And in some people's eyes those flaws are just the right ones. No one is perfect, but sometimes things between people work out remarkably well. Especially in fiction. ;-)_

 _PoemstheEarth, writing a range of diverse female characters and delving deeper into their friendships was one of the things I really wanted to do in this story. Tolkien does such a great job of showing the strong bonds between men through difficult times and situations, and women are no different really. I am so glad it is working for you!_

 _And for those of you desperate for more Eomer and Lothiriel interaction: so am I, and (spoiler) that's why I had a really good time writing the next chapter._

 _And what PoemstheEarth says is completely right – although I began this story because I just really wanted to write it, it is reading your reviews and responses that makes me want to continue to flesh it out and share it with you! So yes, thank you all; your comments are very appreciated, and also a huge thank you to everyone who has been following and favouriting!_


	11. The Pleasure of Dancing

**The Pleasure of Dancing**

"Are you certain about this?" asked Gimli. "We are speaking of a gift beyond price. The riches in those mountains are unlike anything seen for generations."

"My friend, you came to the aid of my people even though the fight was not yours, and you saved my life and many of those dear to me in that cave. Indeed, I am certain. I would grant you and your descendants the lordship of the Glittering Caves in perpetuity."

Gimli inclined his head. "And you will not regret it. As long as my kinsfolk will dwell there, so yours will share in its beauties and treasures. Use them to restore your lands, my lord."

Éomer grinned at the dwarf, certain he had just already made the best deal of the week. "Are you staying for the council?"

Gimli shook his head. "It is an affair of men, and men alone. My kinsfolk have no quarrel with the Haradrim now that the Dark Lord has fallen." He stroked his beard. "I think I shall stay for the feast and the ball, though. Legolas is conversing with a tree somewhere. He might well be occupied for a few days."

oOo

The ambassadors from Harad arrived in the bright hours after dinner. They passed through the gates stiff and still in their saddles on bay horses, and took in the wealth and beauty of the gardens with a veiled look. There were no women among them, Éomer noted, and they were no mere diplomats either: many had the build and dress of warriors, although not the man at the front, who seemed older than the others, small of shoulder, and soft of belly. His grey eyes were keen, though, and both he and his horse were draped in rich velvets – surely torturous in this heat. As they gathered in the yard, Éomer recognised some of the emblems: a lone tower in a sea of yellow, a red lizard on blue, a craggy tree amidst a shadowy field and a strange, elongated cat with bright green eyes peering from a mound of rocks. There were no corsair banners, nor any sign of the black serpent, whose king had been slain by Théoden in single combat on the Pelennor. Éomer stood next to Aragorn, with Faramir and Imrahil to their left, as they raised their hands in greeting. Éowyn and Arwen were a little off to the right, accompanied by Arwen's maidens just behind.

Éomer saw Lothíriel lean over to whisper something in Raissel's ear that caused the girl to clap her hand over her mouth to restrain a giggle. All was well between them then. He was relieved; he knew from experience that disputes between women could take a while to settle. (According to Éowyn this was because society frowned on them just hitting each other over the head for a bit, like men would in a similar situation). It had been an uncomfortable end to an interesting evening. Sheltered, thoughtless Lothíriel! He could not very well reproach her for interrupting her friend, tactless though her comment may have been, when he, uncharitably, had also felt some impatience at Raissel's timid speech. Still, a part of him (that same uncharitable part perhaps) had felt a tinge of gratification at seeing the princess of Dol Amroth reprimanded by her friend. Another part had felt equally chastened. He shifted his gaze to study Raissel, who had regained her composure and stood smiling graciously. The girl really was uncommonly beautiful, but between Hethlil's poise and discernment, and Lothíriel's sharp wit, he could imagine it must not always be easy for someone like Raissel to assert herself; and Éomer resolved to think of her more generously.

The reception that followed was formal, but not entirely devoid of cordiality. The ambassadors had brought their hosts gifts and tokens from their kingdom; strange coloured glass, heavy silks and precious oils. One party bowed deeply before they presented Éowyn and Faramir with a litter of kittens, "a blessing on your new home," the leader added in smooth Westron. Like Éowyn, Éomer had to prevent himself from recoiling – the Eorlingas had no love for cats, whom they considered no more than a necessary evil to keep mice at bay, and these had sharp faces and flat ears that made them look downright mean. Faramir stepped in to accept them, but it was Lothíriel who saved them from a premature diplomatic incident, as the girl took the nasty wretches from her cousin with genuine excitement, cooed over them and settled them on a patch of soft grass in the shade.

The ceremony ended at last and as the Southrons were guided to their wing of the house, Éomer determined to visit the stables to check on Firefoot. He felt the tension radiate off his captain, and his guards kept so uncomfortably close that they almost tripped over his feet. At last he barked at them: "They surrendered their weapons at the gate and we will never have peace if you keep brandishing your swords at them. At ease!"

The men stepped back a little, mumbling an apology and Éomer sighed, feeling it would be a long day.

oOo

There was a momentary lull in activity while Éowyn and her staff showed the Haradrim to their rooms, and Lothíriel used it to steal away and check on Suldis, whom she had not had a chance to visit for some days. As soon as she had entered the stall, Rhanaer appeared behind her: "Why, Princess Lothíriel, you are looking very regal today. Let me aid you."

Lothíriel carefully removed a bit of straw from her silk skirts. "There is no need. I will not ride today; there is too much to be done. I just came by for a brief visit."

"Ah. I thought the king and your father might have wanted you to ride. Demonstrate your skills, so to speak."

Lothíriel felt dubious: "I admit I can look a bit of a fright in some of this regal finery, as you call it, but surely if we are looking to intimidate, we should rather ask King Éomer to do a few laps on that warg of his."

Rhanaer laughed, and leaned over the stable door. "I did not think they would have intimidation in mind. Rather the opposite."

Something in his tone caught her attention. "What do you mean?"

"My lady, you are always fair, and one of Gondor's greatest treasures, but seldom more enticing than when on horseback. The deal could be struck within the hour."

The forwardness of his speech was instantly forgotten as her blood froze at the implication. "I - what?"

"Please, do not feel self-conscious. Everyone knows King Elessar hopes to make an alliance with the man and of course a marriage to the highest-ranking maiden of Gondor would ensure the loyalty of the tribes. It is why we are all here, after all." He studied her carefully. "Princess, you look pale. Are you quite well?"

"My father spoke nothing of this to me."

"Ah. Then I must apologise. I assumed you knew and the engagement was all but announced. The barracks have been full of the news for weeks."

Lothíriel stammered a little: "What – I mean – the very idea." Impossible, surely. Beyond belief! And yet. Had she not wondered at her father promoting her involvement in an affair so far beyond her ordinary sphere of responsibility? Had not Aunt Ivriniel warned her that her father would be looking to extend the family's influence with her marriage, which meant that Lothíriel would be expected to be more than a mere ornament? (She remembered a fond clucking sound and an unnecessarily sharp tug at her curls: "As if that would not be challenge enough.") Was this why her father had not pushed her to consider any of her suitors; why he had seemed so wholly disinterested in the matter? Prince Imrahil always had a plan. Always. Lothíriel compressed her lips and then, rather in spite of herself, she said in a timid voice: "Why would my father keep this from me?"

Rhanaer's features pulled into a thoughtful frown. "Your father is a clever man. He must have his reasons. Perhaps he suspected you would not be cooperative if you knew the truth. But I think you deserve to know." He reached out and touched her cheek. "After all, your marriage is quite a bit more important to you than it is to him."

Lothíriel just nodded.

oOo

That evening the Great Hall of Emyn Arnen was filled with light and music, the stately strings less cool and forbidding in Faramir and Éowyn's happy home than they had seemed in the Merethrond. Éomer drank his ale and took in his surroundings. Lothíriel was stepping a pavane with some Lord of Lebennin. She had shared his table at the banquet, but he had found her unusually quiet and often caught her looking vacantly elsewhere. On the dance floor, however, she was in her element. Earlier she had danced with Amrothos and then she had partnered the King of Gondor himself. Undoubtedly the next admirer was already lined up. She looked radiant, every move so graceful and deliberate, with just a hint of carefully controlled abandon…

"She is a good dancer," came a voice beside him and he turned around to see Hethlil standing there, looking very fine in a deep burgundy dress, with her auburn hair curled and twisted into a complicated braid and set with a golden clasp.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"Lothíriel," said Hethlil, looking over at her friend. "She is one of the most accomplished dancers I have ever seen, even though she never came to court before the end of the war."

"I am no great judge," mumbled Éomer, feeling a little caught out.

"Oh?" She smiled. "Do the Rohirrim not dance, my lord?"

"Certainly we dance." He turned to her. "In fact, would you dance with me, Hethlil?"

"I would, if you would ask me. "

He held out his hand. "I fear I may embarrass you."

He danced a saraband with Hethlil, and another, as she was good company and made him feel at ease. They ended the second dance in the same set as Amrothos and Raissel, and the four of them strolled together to the banquet table for some refreshments.

"My lady, you make a splendid partner. I hope you will reserve at least one more dance for me," said Amrothos to Raissel, as he offered her a glass of wine.

The girl blushed furiously. "I – of course, my lord. You dance so very well. Just like Princess Lothíriel."

"Thank you," said Amrothos, bowing and then joining them on the benches. "I promised Loth a galliard together later. We shall surely be the envy of the Hall."

Beside him, Hethlil tilted her chin haughtily. It was but a cursory, almost unbidden gesture, but his friend had observed it as well as he.

"Lady Hethlil, I believe I have offended!" said Amrothos with a smile.

For a moment Hethlil seemed abashed, but then recovered herself. "My lord, you know it is not proper for a grown woman to dance with her brother. What to you is a small and innocent amusement may bring injury to your sister and it would become you to remember that."

Amrothos, looking a little too delighted at this lecture, mused: "You are right, of course, although it stumps me why these courtly dances should be so restricted." He swirled his glass of wine in his hand. "Perhaps next time we should invite a troupe from Belfalas to play. It would be my pleasure to acquaint you both with some dances I would not enjoy to engage in with my sister."

Another furious blush from Raissel, but Hethlil was unmoved: "You are incorrigible."

Amrothos laughed and jumped to his feet. "Not wholly so, I hope. Lady Hethlil, I call upon your conscience and your valour. Save Lothíriel's virtue, and mine, and please join me for this next dance."

Hethlil pursed her lips, but then rose and accepted with a smile that seemed somehow in spite of herself. Éomer frowned, wondering –not for the first time- how Amrothos got away with being such a cad. He looked about and saw that Éothain had worked up the nerve to address Raissel; and was being gently instructed to some of the basic steps of Gondor's dances. Meanwhile, Lothíriel was sat alone, hands folded into her lap and a pensive expression on her face. Before he had had a chance to give it any thought, he had walked up to her.

"Dance with me, Lothi,"

She looked startled, then a little sardonic, but accepted his outstretched hand nonetheless. They moved to the centre of the floor, and after a brief lull, the musicians resumed their play. The tune was unfamiliar, and the couples arranged themselves into a half circle. Éomer dropped Lothíriel's arm and mumbled something about a forgotten prior engagement.

"It is impolite to withdraw an offer to dance after it is made, my lord. To refuse to carry through after a command, well, that would be outrageous, would you not agree?" Her fingers were warm through the fabric of his sleeves, and though her touch was light as a feather he found it impossible to move.

"I do not know the steps," he confessed.

"You are in luck, for it is easy, and not unlike the alman you danced earlier. Just follow those lines, and I shall do the rest."

She took his hand and moved them beside an elderly couple whom he had noted earlier on account of the lady's rather garish veil. Lothíriel turned out to be right; it was a slow and simple dance, and after a few bars he felt himself ease into it.

"You are doing very well," said Lothíriel with approval.

"Hm. I would not disappoint you, of course."

"I appreciate your sacrifice, my lord. Were you feeling sorry for me because I alone out of my friends was without a partner?"

"Not in the least," he said honestly. "I just wanted a dance."

She gave him a somewhat puzzled smile in return, then turned to finish the movement, tilting her neck just so as she pivoted on her toes.

"Are you enjoying your evening, Lothi?" he asked when she circled to face him again.

"Indeed I am."

"And the size of the room, the music and the weather are all to your liking?"

"Very satisfactory," said Lothíriel with a grin, stepping in and out of his arms, locks of black curls brushing against his tunic. "I am surprised you have not asked me whether my family is in good health. In case you were wondering, they are right over there."

"Your memory is far better than it has any right to be."

She laughed and her eyes sparkled. "I am sorry. My brothers have told me the same."

All too soon the dance came to an end, and to Éomer's surprise they were still neatly lined up with the rest of the dancers. Lothíriel sank into a modest curtsy, and he returned a bow with some sense of accomplishment. They moved off the floor and were joined by Gimli, whom he had seen observing the festivities with a constant smirk on his face. "That was some impressive dancing, my friend."

"Thank you," said Éomer drily.

Gimli bowed: "You stepped that dance with great aplomb considering you were lost on your feet, and the Princess managed to make you look very well indeed."

"Again, I thank you. No one does flattery quite like a dwarf."

Gimli laughed heartily. "Aragorn and I are about to sneak away to have a smoke in the rose garden. You are welcome to join us, or at least do us the service of distracting your sister so she may not notice."

"I will join you momentarily," grinned Éomer. Unlike his uncle, Éowyn did not consider the curious use the Halflings had found for Westman's-weed a charming custom – more an unnecessarily malodorous waste of time - but Éomer found it rather calmed him. He turned to Lothíriel, who was watching the dwarf saunter off with amusement. "My friend is right," he said to her. "How is it that the women of Gondor always seem to know how to make a man look competent even if we do not know the steps?"

"I shall tell you," said Lothíriel placing a hand on his arm as they wandered to the other side of the Hall. "As my Aunt Ivriniel taught me." She fixed her features and continued in a modulated voice: "Dancing is much the same as any interaction involving men: they are bound to get it wrong and need your guidance, but it must always seem like they were leading all along. At first, respond favourably and willingly to all his errors; it will give him confidence. Then use your alignment and your eyes to subtly suggest the right movements."

"And how is this magic achieved?"

"A shift of weight… a small twist of the ankle. Sometimes a tilt of the head suffices. Look at us now," said Lothíriel, tapping her fingers on the buffet table. "I was a half step behind you always, as is proper, yet it was not you who decided to walk over to the desserts. You see; I really wanted some cakes, but as a princess I cannot very well say that." She took off her glove, selected a sweet and held it delicately in her hand.

"You would probably take to the blade quite well, should you ever wish to learn," said Éomer with some admiration.

"I think I should prefer to dance," said Lothíriel with a smile. "You overestimate my skill, my lord. You are simply very responsive. Not all men take as well to compliance."

 _Minx_. "Why, thank you, Lothi. That is high praise." He paused for a moment. "The unspoken wishes of my people are often the most acute. I would be a fool not to follow where they would lead me. Especially," he added, while choosing a slice of biscuit cake for himself "if the matter involves pastries."

She looked up at him in surprise and then laughed. "My lord, you say the most unexpected things sometimes."

For a moment he stood transfixed by the endearing frankness in her eyes. "It is an impressive skill you have nonetheless," he said at last. "Of course, for it to be effective you probably should not inform these men of how exactly they are being played."

"Well, under ordinary circumstances I would never do so," said Lothíriel. "Only you now know our secret, my lord. The ladies of Gondor depend on your honour and discretion."

oOo

Lothíriel sat quietly gossiping with Raissel when her father finally found her. Both ladies rose to their feet and curtsied, and her father put his hands behind his back.

"There you are, Lothíriel. I have been looking for you. You have yet to be introduced to the Haradrim ambassadors. Come." Her father's eyes swept over her in a quick inspection; then he straightened a sleeve and tucked a wayward curl more securely under her diadem. "You are looking very beautiful tonight, my dear" he said with approval.

Lothíriel's heart cried out in dismay as he took her arm and led her to the centre of the Hall, but she forced herself to remain calm and set her face to a blank expression.

"Daughter, may I introduce Lord Dume. My lord, I am honoured to present my daughter, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."

"The honour is mine. I am glad to meet you, Princess Lothíriel." Keen eyes in a pale face, the man looked old enough to be her father, and not nearly as well preserved. His attire was almost gaudy; thick rings on thicker fingers; and the set of the jaw was stern and unyielding. A man used to being obeyed, but no warrior. Éowyn would hate him. So did Lothíriel. She curtsied and kept her gaze deliberately lowered, uneasy spasms tugging at her stomach.

"I observed you earlier on the dance floor. I hoped, Princess, you would consider to partner me for the next dance perhaps."

Lothíriel swallowed nervously, steeled herself and looked up. "Forgive me, I am a little tired. I never dance more than a few dances in an evening. I get winded so easily, don't you?"

She felt the man's eyes boring into her. "A pity." A brief silence followed, then Lord Dume coughed. "Your father tells me you share our love for acrobatics and theatre, and take an interest in our lands and culture. I hope one day our countries may be close enough that you might visit them."

"I don't know," she said with an airy, dismissive gesture. She could feel her father shift beside her and a blush of guilt crept up her neck. "I find travel very tiresome."

"I hope our country could make it worth your while. The desert may broaden your horizons, Princess."

Lord Dume stepped closer, still assessing her with that intent stare, and then briefly licked his lips. Lothíriel felt a flash of fury at the entire situation.

"Thank you. I do not know if I care to become so horizontally broadened," she returned, looking pointedly at his girth.

If Lothíriel thought the Haradan might well not understand her jibe, she was wrong. It felt as if the room came to a sudden halt; Lord Dume's eyes narrowed, and after a brief nod he turned around and stalked away. It took a moment for the murmurs of bystanders to reach Lothíriel's ears, and then she felt a firm grip on her upper arm, and she turned to meet her father's furious gaze.

"Lothíriel, what have you done?" he hissed and he dragged her out of the hall while the musicians struck up a lively galliard.

oOo

Only when they had reached a secluded part of the garden away from the festivities, did Prince Imrahil turn on her: "What perversity possessed you to speak so to Dume?" he bit. "I demand an explanation for this atrocious behaviour; Lothíriel, I did not think it possible!"

Lothíriel, livid at the situation and at being publicly manhandled by her father, shook herself loose from his grip. "Did I ruin your plans? I am glad! I have no wish to be a pawn in this scheme."

"What is this? You know how important peace is to the King, to Gondor, and you dare imperil our negotiations? Why would you do this?"

"I know everything!" cried Lothíriel. "I know that you are planning to marry me to that… horrible man; and what is worse, you did not even care to tell me!"

"Marry you! What are you talking about? How can you think I would do that? Or that the King and Queen would even allow it?"

"It is common knowledge among the rangers."

"Lothíriel, do not tell me you let yourself be swayed by soldiers' tales?"

"I wished to ensure it was not even an option."

"It would never be an option!"

"Good! The first thing I would do is declare war on Gondor."

Her father's normally so calm and friendly face contracted with fury, and he looked as if he was about ready to strike her. Lothíriel inadvertently did a step back. "Lothíriel, enough. These are no things to say even in jest."

"I thought it was never an option," she murmured.

"It is irrelevant! Even if it were, you should have behaved with courtesy and dignity. You are the Princess of Dol Amroth!"

"I do not want to marry him."

"Are you hearing me, Lothíriel? There is no possible excuse for publicly insulting a foreign dignitary. There are matters at stake here of an importance and delicacy you obviously cannot even hope to comprehend."

"Very well," said Lothíriel, feeling her throat tighten. "Perhaps I am too stupid to understand. But my marriage is a lot more important to my happiness than it is to yours!"

A silence followed, and her own words echoed back to her, shrill and flat in the night air.

"The Valar know I have always indulged you, Lothíriel, and taken your arguments and whims seriously and perhaps that was my folly." Her father buried his face in his hands, and when he looked up his eyes were calm and cold. "You have gone too far. These men have come to us in supplication and good faith; and you have humiliated them. How dare you – how could you? You have no idea of the damage you may have done here."

"Ada – please."

"I am very disappointed in you, Lothíriel. Go to bed. I do not wish to see you again."

It was as if the world fell away under her feet and Lothíriel could only stand there, quiet and still, while the harp players finished the final measures of the dance.

oOo

Éomer had briefly retired to his room to refresh himself – his irreverent nephew had vomited all over his tunic when he took him for a little spin, much to the hilarity of his sister – and was on his way back to the Hall when he saw a small figure curled up in the window seat. Even with her face turned away and pressed to the glass, he had no problem recognising her.

"Lothíriel. What are you doing here? Should you not be at the dance?"

The girl turned him a gloomy grey-eyed glance. "I have been sent to bed in disgrace. You are probably not surprised."

"Not overly so," he said lightly, but he reined in further jests at her crestfallen expression and kneeled down next to her. "Lothi, will you tell me what happened?"

The story came out with fits and starts. "I should not have believed it so readily," concluded Lothíriel. "But what am I supposed to think? Everyone expects me to get engaged now that I am officially of age and father set my dowry, but he never talks to me anymore. I don't know if I will get a say. I don't even know whether he gives it any thought at all." She breathed a forlorn sigh. "I am sorry. I should not be telling you this."

Éomer sat back and leaned his head against the window, disbelief at Lothíriel's appalling disrespect mixed with disquiet over the diplomatic consequences, and then, wholly unexpected, a stab of annoyance at his friend for his casual neglect of the daughter so obviously devoted to him.

"It is not a pretty tale," he said at last.

Lothíriel wrapped her arms around her knees: "I have never seen father so furious. I fear I have ruined everything," she added in a broken whisper.

The sudden urge to hold her to him caught him by surprise with its intensity; instead, he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Do not fret, Lothi. If the treaty will fall over this, it was always going to fall."

"Do you think so?"

She looked at him with such wide-eyed hope that he could only reinforce his sentiment. "Certainly. I very much doubt we will go to battle over the impertinent words of one unruly princess." Indeed, if that were the case, he would have had to declare war upon Gondor long ago.

She swallowed and nodded, more hopeful than actually convinced.

"Get some rest and apologise to your father tomorrow. I am sure he will be ready to hear and forgive you."

She bowed her head and rose to her feet, giving him a small smile before she disappeared down the corridor. Éothain, who had observed from a distance, fell into step beside him.

"Is Princess Lothíriel well?"

Éomer conveyed the story to his captain in brief words. "Undoubtedly it will be of little consequence. The Southrons are in no position to exact retribution for the rudeness of a young girl, even if she is a princess. Lothíriel may fear the wrath of her father, but I am fairly sure Imrahil would forgive her anything."

"As, I am starting to suspect, would a certain Éomer?" said Éothain.

Éomer did not deign that worthy of a response.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you for all the reviews and comments, especially to my guest reviewers anthi, JRB and PoemstheEarth whom I cannot thank via PM! Welcome to the new followers as well; I hope you all got the email notification. I heard ffnet has been a bit unpredictable of late._

 _It was lovely to see some of you recognising the Box Hill scene and I loved reading everyone's thoughts on Hethlil, Lothi and Eomer. I shall refrain from commenting too much this time. Some things are starting to unravel, and I hope you all enjoyed –finally- seeing some Eomer and Lothiriel interaction again._

 _I chose to mainly be inspired by and refer to Renaissance dances instead of Regency ones, because they seemed more suited to the stylised and formal Gondorian balls I am imagining. We do not know exactly what these dances may have looked like and I definitely took liberties there, because Middle-Earth dances are of course different from regular Earth dances. You can look up some other reconstructions online, if you wish, and you will perhaps have more sympathy for Eomer's awkwardness._

 _Finally, thanks to Lialathuveril and eschscholzia for their kind feedback on a draft of this chapter._


	12. A Better Daughter and Kinder Sister

**A Better Daughter and Kinder Sister**

Lothíriel was still wide-awake when Hethlil and Raissel retired to their room, and took the opportunity to give her very best performance of being asleep. To her surprise, her friends did not attempt to wake her, nor did they mention anything about the scene she had caused during their quick and excited whispered relay of the ball, the number of dances and Queen Arwen's gown. With her back to her friends, Lothíriel stared into the darkness. What had happened after she left? Had the Haradrim been angry? Would they have to go to war again now? Did Queen Arwen know what she had done? (Her heart sped up at the thought; the Queen had been a great champion of this event, and the thought of failing Arwen Undómiel was unbearable).

It was very early in the morning when she stood in front of her father's chambers. She had confirmed with the kitchen staff and knew that he was awake and had broken his fast. Her father had always been an early riser. Indeed, he hardly ever seemed to sleep at all. She swallowed, steeled herself, and then knocked on the door _. I am Lothíriel of Dol Amroth_ , she reminded herself under her breath, _and I am not afraid of anything_.

"Enter," she heard her father's voice.

She opened the door and stepped inside to find her father sitting behind his desk. When he looked up and noticed her, his eyes veiled over.

"Lothíriel."

"Father."

She stood a little uncertainly as he regarded her with a cool expression.

"I just wanted…," she started then paused. "Oh Ada, please tell me what happened? Was the Haradrim lord very upset?"

"He was unhappy, yes."

"He did not leave, did he?" she gave voice to her fear. After all their hard work! It would be unthinkable.

Her father coughed, piled up his notes and moved them to the side. "No, Lothíriel, he did not leave. Your brothers had some conversation with him. He seemed displeased, but ready to dismiss it as the whims of a green and capricious child."

She cringed at her father's harsh tone: "So, all is well?"

"You disappointed me last night, Lothíriel."

Those words again. "I am sorry."

"You put me in a very difficult position."

"I will apologise."

"You certainly shall apologise. I am just wondering how someone so bright as yourself could be that unthinking."

"I am really not that smart," she mumbled and her father's gaze softened a little.

"Perhaps you are not as clever as Amrothos, or Elphir, but that hardly matters."

"Are you now going to say it does not matter because I am a woman?"

"No," a short laugh followed by a crinkle of amusement. "No, Lothíriel. Unfortunately for you, you are still more intelligent than any woman should be to be quite comfortable in her own skin."

Unsure what her father meant by that, Lothíriel perched on the edge of his desk and rested her chin on her palm. "It just seemed so very certain," she said in a small voice. "I heard the rumours, and it was as if everything made sense; your decision to send me to Emyn Arnen, the lavish clothes… Ada, I was scared."

"You should have come to me."

"You have been so busy. I cannot remember the last time we had an actual conversation."

Her father sighed and sat back in his chair. "Lothíriel. I feel it is important that you know that I expect all my children to make a contribution, to work for the good of this family, and our land and king. You are no exception."

Lothíriel considered this. "Éowyn has offered to teach me to use a sword." And King Éomer had actually intimated that she might be good at it, although if she were honest, Lothíriel had never doubted that she would be.

To her secret satisfaction her father paled. "That is not what I meant."

"What you meant," she mumbled, "is that you expect me to open my legs to the right man."

His eyes went cold. "Lothíriel, don't be crude. And no, that is not what I meant at all. Although if you believe me capable of wedding my only daughter to a man who up until a year ago followed Sauron, I guess I should not be surprised that this is how you see me."

"I'm sorry, please, Ada, let's not fight again. You were right, and I was wrong. I really want you to be proud of me."

"You do?"

"Yes, of course. Honestly, I am not such a rebel as everyone seems to think I am."

Another crinkle of amusement. "I am pleased to hear it."

Lothíriel swung her legs onto the desk, tucking her feet under her gown to warm them – her father raised his eyebrows but did not remonstrate her – and she idly picked up a quill and let it slide between her fingers. "Why do you not wish me to learn how to fight?" she asked after a moment.

"You have never shown an interest before."

"But what if I did wish to learn?"

Her father gave another sigh. "I simply don't want you in battle, Lothíriel. It is my prerogative to defend and fight for my daughter, as it is your brothers' to fight for their sister, and some day soon it will be your husband's. It has been a great comfort to me that you got through the war untested."

Lothíriel bit her lip, and nodded, careful not to let her father see her expression. She had long ago determined never to speak of it. How much it had hurt, to see all of them riding off to what they believed to be their doom, to hear of her father's half-hearted attempts to get Elphir to remain behind, first in Dol Amroth, then in Minas Tirith, and Elphir's brusque dismissal, his assurances that he belonged with his family, which apparently in times of war did not include Lothíriel. She was so proud of them. They did not deserve to be made to feel even the slightest bit of guilt. Yet it had been hard to accept that they would all have gladly gone to their death and left her behind, alone. Untested? Yes, she supposed. Relatively so.

"What I meant, my dear, is that you were born into a position of great privilege, and with this come duties and responsibilities that you cannot neglect; even if they come at great personal sacrifice. You cannot rebel against the one without threatening the very foundations of the other."

"Amrothos…"

"I would advise you not to model your manner on your brother's. He has the happy fortune to attract goodwill in spite of himself, and his style of diplomacy will be difficult to emulate."

"Hmm," said Lothíriel.

"Do you hear what I am saying? Lothíriel, you may never put yourself first like that."

She swallowed, nodded and sat down on the armrest next to her father. She traced some unfamiliar lines of care in his face. She had never thought about her father ageing, he always looked so young and fair, but the years of war and doubt had taken a toll on him and it suddenly showed, as if in rest and peace her father had finally allowed his features to catch up with his years. It disturbed her. In her mind, her father was as everlasting and immortal as an Elf. She leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder, as she had not done since she had been a girl. So they sat when a knock on the door came and Amrothos strode into the room. He took in the scene with a grimace.

"Ah, I see all is forgiven again. Very well. I would have been mucking out the stables for a month. It's fine; it's fine. Someone has to be the favourite."

"Envy doesn't become you, Amrothos," said Lothíriel.

"Forgiven but not forgotten," came her father's voice. "There have to be consequences, Lothíriel."

"Of course. Let's open negotiations," said Lothíriel, wrapping her arms around her father's neck and planting a kiss on his temple. "How about… no embroidery for a week."

"Lothíriel…"

"You are right; I have been very bad and the punishment should reflect the crime. A month."

"Ai Elbereth."

"You drive a hard bargain, Ada. All right, two months. It will break my heart – and Queen Arwen's heart, too – but I won't touch a single needle."

Imrahil laughed, pushed her off and Lothíriel knew she had won. Amrothos cast their father a pitying look. "I hope for the sake of my inheritance that you will be a bit more adept at negotiating a profitable deal at the conference today. That was a poor show, father. And especially now that they won't have Lothíriel."

She stumbled and glared at her brother. Amrothos held up his hands and said hastily: "Sister, be easy. It was never on the table."

"Indeed," said her father.

The turmoil in her head would not settle, though. She studied a fingernail and bit down on it.

"Lothíriel, grooming habits…" said her father with a sigh. "Well, what is on your mind, my daughter? Out with it."

"I just hope… Ada. Are there any… plans? After all, this matter concerns me very closely."

"Plans?"

"For my betrothal." Even the word itself was hard to say.

Her father leaned back. "No, Lothíriel, there are no plans. You are young. I am in no rush to accept any offer at the moment. Yet I will not deny that I hope to make an advantageous match for you.

"Ah. And will I get a say in who this advantageous match will be?"

"Lothíriel. I would give you away only to a man I think you may respect and love."

"I do not think I ever have been in love," said Lothíriel.

"That's a relief," said her father drily. "I meant a man I think you may grow to love."

"Ah," said Lothíriel, uncertain. It surely did not sound like she would have much of a choice.

Imrahil tapped his lips and looked at her searchingly. "I had hoped that perhaps you and Éomer would take a liking to each other. You know I think very highly of him."

It was as if she were back on the tightrope, moments before the fall. "Éomer-King? Ada, you must be mad."

A light smile played on her father's lips. "It was a small hope," he allowed.

"It would be absurd."

"You cannot blame me for wanting the best for my daughter. But perhaps you are not meant to be a queen."

"I always thought princess already required a stretch of the imagination," Amrothos weighed in helpfully.

"Amrothos, is there a reason you are here?"

"Ah indeed. I have news from Elphir."

"Grim or happy?"

"A little of both." Lothíriel felt intrigued and her brother flashed her a grin. "It involves the revenue of some of the coastal estates. Lord Húron had some particular thoughts about…"

Lothíriel started for the door.

"Before you go, Lothíriel…" she heard her father say, and she turned around. "You are confined to your chambers until further notice. I will not have you cause any more scenes, or have you flaunting your position in the face of the Haradrim ambassadors. Your friends will be quite capable of hosting the event without you. You may come down for dinner, but you will stay in the background.

"Confined to my chambers? But what am I supposed to do?" asked Lothíriel in horror.

"Let's see. Here," said her father, taking out a book from the stack next to him. "You may read this today. Then perhaps next time you will have something appropriate to say."

The weathered volume was titled _A Political History of Near-Harad._ "Oh no," said Lothíriel. "Could you not just give me that book on etiquette Aunt Ivriniel recommended? _The Gondorian Maiden's Guide to Proper Deportment_?"

"I would, if I thought it would do any good." Then he shook his head. "No, Lothíriel. It is high time you put your mind to a more sensible use. You will stay in your chambers and read the entire text. Don't think to sneak out or daydream. I will test you on it tonight."

oOo

When Lothíriel returned to her chambers, Hethlil had already gone down to breakfast, but Raissel was still dressing her hair. She was in high spirits, and full of tales of the ball.

"We danced a quadrille, and then a galliard. Your brother was so gallant, Lothíriel! Oh yes, and then I danced with the king of the Rohirrim," she blushed at this, "and then…"

"You danced with King Éomer?" asked Lothíriel, unable to refrain from interrupting.

"Only once," she blushed deeper. "But he danced only five dances. He stood up with Hethlil three times, though."

"He must like her then." Her voice came out a little more sullen than seemed strictly necessary.

"Do you think so, truly?" said Raissel. "That would be wonderful! To think, Hethlil might be Queen of Rohan! Why, she would outrank even you, Lothíriel!"

"Not really," murmured Lothíriel.

"She would be a queen!" said Raissel, still excited.

"Yes, of Rohan." A little too scornful, but Lothíriel could not stop herself. "Who wants to live there in the desolate and frozen north?" Green plains and slow sunsets, rivers rushing down the mountainside…

"Oh, yes, I imagine it is quite cold, but Hethlil would be so happy to leave home and be settled…"

Lothíriel's lips took on a pensive droop. Indeed, Hethlil's current situation was nothing to envy, and it was far more important for her to make a good match quickly than it was for either of them.

"Do you like him, Raissel? The king of Rohan, I mean?"

"Oh no!" said Raissel. "I mean; to look at, of course. He is very handsome, and splendid. And he was very kind to me yesterday. But he would never be truly interested in someone like me, I know that."

As Raissel busied herself to lace Lothíriel into her corset, Lothíriel assessed her friend in the glass. Indeed, she was not quite as sure that Raissel's prospects with King Éomer were as poor as her friend seemed to believe. With some envy she studied the delicate features and those sea-grey eyes offset by long, dark lashes, so like Queen Arwen's. And surely if Éomer liked the thought of being worshipped by his wife, and he was clearly the type of man who did, Raissel was the perfect choice. She would give him nothing but sweet affection and awe for all his days. Hethlil was different. She would expect to rule at his side; would in fact do so whether he invited it or not, as clever and skilled she was at getting men to do whatever she desired, while believing it was their idea all along. (Lothíriel considered herself not wholly untalented in that area, but she did not care for it much. If she had ideas, she wanted credit for them, preferably in the form of lengthy applause and a waterfall of praise.) Yes, Hethlil would make a resolute and powerful queen. If that was what Éomer wanted... Lothíriel sighed, puffed her cheeks at her own reflection and put it out of her mind.

* * *

 _A/N Belecthor's_ The Gondorian Maiden's Guide to Proper Deportment _belongs to the library of Lialathuveril and appears here with kind permission._

 _I know this is a short chapter, but I wanted to keep things thematically unified._

 _PoemstheEarth, I did indeed promise an appearance by Legolas, even though he was sadly absent at the ball! I really enjoy writing Legolas, and Gimli even more, but for obvious reasons they do not appear much in this story (I imagine Eomer and Gimli to be quite close, after all their arguments and being comrades-in-arms, especially considering the night at Helm's Deep, but there is no defensible reason for this Lothiriel to be on intimate terms with the members of the Fellowship). However, Legolas will play a role in the finale, as promised. Currently, it seems there will be 22 chapters, excluding the prologue and epilogue, but I've been moving things around a little, so it could be one more or less._

 _Summer is around the corner, and I foresee long days of lazing in the sun and putting our heroes through the second act and denouement of this dance. For now, however, updates will continue to be a bit more erratic, as I am finishing work, packing up my belongings and embarking on ambitious DIY projects._

 _Thank you, as always, for your support and reviews. It means so much to me and comments are always welcome._


	13. The Beauty of Truth and Sincerity

**The Beauty of Truth and Sincerity**

"Do you trust them?"

Aragorn spread his hands. "Some more than others."

They sat together in the King of Gondor's chambers, breaking their fast and debating strategy, just in time before the start of the council. Éomer rubbed his beard. "Forgive me if I am not particularly encouraged."

"They know their cause is lost, and they have no banner or leader to gather behind. There is nothing to be gained from continued hostilities."

"They also have little to lose: no pride, no honour, no lord to fight for and no allies they can trust. Their defeat has cost them everything." Indeed, it was not a life any rider of the Mark would consider worth living.

"In general people are peculiarly attached to their lives, however trivial they may seem to you or me," Aragorn said with delicate emphasis. "Éomer, you are a discerning man. Your judgment in this matter weighs heavily with me."

The strange ranger from the north Éomer had eighteen months ago decided to trust on a whim, an instinct, a stirring of the heart, leaned back into his seat, calm grey eyes fixed on his.

Éomer chose his words with care. "You dwelled among them; are familiar with their ways. To my people, they are nothing but a strange, dark enemy from distant lands. For too long my people have felt inferior, have felt the Mark yielded too easily to threats from abroad. I shall not trust them until they give us good reason. We have our own borders to protect, and an old enemy in the men from Dunland now at our mercy."

"How is the situation?"

"With Dunland? They are suffering. They never had much, and allowed Saruman and his Uruk-Hai to poison what was theirs."

"Have you made peace?"

"A cessation of hostilities. There is no glory in waging war on an enemy so downtrodden. They hoarded many of our valuables and resources; we have claimed reparations and left them be. I will not begrudge them what they manage to rebuild and save, but that is the sole mercy I can offer them.

"And if you look to the future?"

"You mean that keeping them impoverished and destitute as they are now will feed their vengeance," Éomer bristled with impatience; it was all too soon to think strategically and magnanimously. "They showed us no compassion; and murdered women, children and horses alike." He had witnessed the devastation of the Westmark firsthand, often the first to arrive on the scene, often still too late to save anyone. "Yet I take no pleasure in seeing women and children starve, even if they are Dunlending. Our harvest was good; our herds are replenishing. In a year or so the Mark may be more forgiving."

"If, by then, there will be any survivors."

"What would you do?"

"What will I do," said Aragorn pensively. "Ah yes, that is the great question."

Éomer waited and Aragorn went on: "It is a simple choice in essence, although complex in practice. The paths open to us, as far as I can see, are three. We seek to eliminate them completely; we find a way of subduing them by force alone, in which case they shall turn against us if they see an opportunity; or we shall enter a period of treaties and accords until alliance is as natural as enmity seems now."

"We might do nothing."

"We cannot now do nothing. It seems clear to me we have only one real option."

"Aye. Although," Éomer added a little sardonically, "death to the lot of them would undoubtedly have been simpler."

"Mind you, you certainly tried, back on the Pelennor." Aragorn pushed the bottle towards him, but Éomer made no move to refill his glass. He needed a clear head, especially today. "Of course, these lands are more than its armies. There are women and children in Harad also."

Indeed, but women and children who had filled their heads and hearts with the teachings of Sauron. Whether they willed it freely or no, it would be hard to come back from such a life. "My first duty is to my people."

"Of course. As is mine." Aragorn tapped his lips. "Some of these men are my people. They live in a domain rightfully mine. Even those who belied and forsook their heritage are my responsibility. It is Man I intend to lead. Not some men."

An ambition beyond his understanding. "Do you intend to offer them friendship… or a new throne to answer to?"

Aragorn returned his gaze with a smile. "Some of them may wish it. And I shall make no secret of it to you: I intend to restore Gondor's borders because it is right, but I have no taste for tyranny. Gondor has walked that road before and it brought us only darkness. Yet I would offer all a chance to be part of the new world I hope to create."

"Then so shall Rohan. Of course."

"Then let us begin. We might as well, now that all are well fed and well diverted after last night's entertainment."

"There have been no further altercations then?"

Aragorn looked up in surprise. "A fight?"

"An incident."

Aragorn looked at him expectantly.

"I did not witness it; I was told about it in confidence." Éomer hesitated, reluctant to have Aragorn believe he would keep information from him without good cause. "By Lothíriel."

"I see. Well, that is a confidence I would never ask you to betray."

"I would have informed you if I believed it to be of serious consequence. Imrahil was there; I am sure he will give you a full report."

"I see," said Aragorn again.

"Shall we, then?"

"One more thing," said Aragorn. "Have you given any more consideration to marriage?"

oOo

Lothíriel sat on the windowsill, leafing through the book her father had instructed her to study, pausing at the maps and charts, and running her fingers over illustrations of mumakil, strange banners and shields.

The words were somewhat less inspiring.

Her father had not lied to Lord Dume. Once upon a time she had been interested in Harad's culture. Of course, that was back when culture meant players, and strange colours, and mummers who could walk on air. Not genealogies and dead men and disputed lands. Lothíriel leaned back against the wall, lifted her legs and flexed her toes, feeling the familiar comforting burn in her muscles. This morning some of the Haradrim had held an impromptu demonstration of their tumbling skills in the garden. She had observed them from her window with some regret. If events had not played out the way they had, she might have been there, memorising their movements, even asking for advice, perhaps, if she was feeling bold. For now, that door seemed firmly shut. Her fault.

She had apologised, away from the eyes of the crowd. Her brothers had done an impressive job keeping the incident quiet. Hethlil and Raissel certainly seemed to know nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. Indeed, Hethlil had been rather irate with her for abandoning them for the day, even if it was by order of her father. Her friends had appeared worn out this morning and Lothíriel feared today Raissel would be quiet and struggle to overcome her shyness, while Hethlil would grow short and irritable with anyone who failed to live up to her standards – which meant everyone. They had had some busy days, and the nervous tension at Emyn Arnen seemed to have many people on edge.

Amrothos had come to take her to Lord Dume's chambers some time after breakfast. He had given her gown and hair a quick inspection, declared it would not do at all, and dragged her back into her room, where, from the antechamber, he had given instructions as to her dress and behaviour.

"Dress as childlike and plainly as you possibly can," he advised. "The younger and less consequential you seem, the less weight Dume can give to the insult."

"I understand that part," said Lothíriel, while undoing her twists and braids, and removing her jewels. "But why must I be unattractive?"

"You will find that the necessary humility comes much more naturally when one does not look one's best," said Amrothos. "Also, you do not wish him to be tempted, do you?"

"And you just expect that I travel with unflattering gowns for these occasions?"

"Certainly. Or our Aunt Ivriniel would be most disappointed in your lack of cunning and foresight."

With a huff of dissatisfaction, Lothíriel produced some dusky rose gown that belonged to Raissel and looked great with her friend's fairer skin, but would make her seem dull and tired. She also allowed Amrothos – after a brief squabble – to tighten the top laces on her corset. That part did not quite work the way Amrothos had planned.

"Huh. It seems you recently acquired some assets that are hard to subdue. Are you quite sure you need all that? It must get dreadfully in the way."

"You are a vulgar lout, Amrothos," said Lothíriel, barely able to draw breath. "Now loosen that up, or I shall tell Ada how you speak in front of me."

"Very well," said Amrothos, deftly pulling at the ribbons so that the pressure on her chest lifted. "Let us hope Dume is one of those rare men not tempted by an enticing physique."

Lothíriel tried to stomp on her brother's toes, although without much conviction. No matter the wording, it was quite gratifying to be told it was difficult to be made to look childlike and unappealing, even if it did come from Amrothos.

She let herself be sat on the bed so her brother could twist her hair into two simple braids. "Amrothos. How do you think the rumour came about?" she asked after a moment.

"Your fictitious engagement to the Haradrim ambassador? I do not know. It is not such an astonishing rumour. Highborn ladies for generations have been peace-weavers between nations. Besides, many still are trying to get a measure of King Elessar, especially when it concerns his foreign politics. He renewed our friendship with Rohan, and sealed it with the marriage of Faramir and Éowyn. It is well known he travelled Harad as well."

"Faramir and Éowyn are in love."

"Aye, that they are," said Amrothos. "But they certainly bestowed their hearts conveniently and to great political success."

"So you think such a match is within the realm of the possible after all?"

"No," came the firm dismissal. "Even if both father and Queen Arwen would not have protested you being thus used, it makes no strategic sense for you to marry a Haradrim lord. Read your book. Their society of old is dispersed and tribal; only fear ever managed to unite them. Elevating one tribe over the others to the extent of a marriage to the daughter of one of Gondor's chief commanders, while their loyalties are yet uncertain, could lead to a new power block that might threaten us before we even have a chance to rebuild."

Lothíriel pondered that for a moment. Indeed, as long as Harad remained a land with no centralised power, it would be too weak to oppose Gondor. Yet who knew what could happen in such a vacuum? "I regret my rudeness. But… Lord Dume did not strike me as a good man. It seems strange to go through such trouble for the alliance of someone like that," she said eventually.

"Ah, but we cannot just treat with those we like and wipe out all others. Lord Dume was first to surrender, and first to reach out and sue for peace."

"Do you believe people can change, Amrothos?"

"All the time. This morning I wanted eggs, but now I think I should prefer bread and butter," said Amrothos.

"Be serious."

"I am." He paused and tied the last ribbon with a precise flourish. "I suppose we do not so much change, truly, as that we all are many things at all times, and our innate abilities and desires allow us a whole range of possible behaviours. But yes, little sister. Since you asked for a serious answer. I believe people can change."

In the end, Amrothos' exterior manipulations proved unnecessary, as under the watchful eye of her father and brothers, Lothíriel could not be anything but genuinely embarrassed and contrite. Lord Dume had nodded, and then addressed her father on some unrelated issue. Lothíriel did not think too much of it. She knew men, and especially important men, were terrible at giving and accepting apologies.

With a sigh she hugged a knee to her chest and returned to the history of Sangahyando and the raid of Pelargir. It certainly did not seem like a more civil topic for evening conversation. Yet perhaps that was not the point of the assignment.

oOo

The men broke up for dinner, too weary after hours of numbers and negotiations to stand on ceremony. The Southerners sat together at the same table they had been assigned the night before, but the rest of the party spread across the hall with little care for rank and standing. Éomer chose a seat away from the bustle, in a vain attempt to seek a moment of solitude. Éowyn and Faramir (who had proven a great conciliator and to Éomer's surprise was fluent in more than one of the southern tongues) joined their king and queen across the hall; Imrahil – in an uncharacteristically blatant disregard of protocol - sat with his children in the back. Éomer had noted Lothíriel's absence at breakfast, and her banishment from the high table and its vicinity, but now she looked to him as cheerful as she had always been. He watched as she rose from her seat, poured the wine, and with an elegant curtsy, handed a cup to Amrothos, eyes filled with some secret, shared joke. Then she turned, skimming her left foot along the floor, one of those careful little graces that came so naturally to the Princess of Dol Amroth, and passed the cup to her father. A look passed between them, and suddenly she was all earnestness, and her smile was warm and regal, like a Lady of the Hall. Éomer felt his breath catch in his throat.

Lothíriel. He would be lying if he said he had never contemplated the possibility. In theory, she was the most eligible maiden in all of Gondor, of the highest birth, with a dowry worthy of a dragon's hoard. She was related to some of his closest friends, a daughter of a family he would be glad to call his kin. And lately he had caught his musings taking a turn for the less prudent, when he saw her dance, or mount her horse, or jump from rock to rock in the gardens of Emyn Arnen, and then he wondered what it would be like to have the graceful and wild princess of Dol Amroth in his bed… but such thoughts were far too dangerous to indulge in (except perhaps, at times, in the darkness and privacy of his own rooms). It took some power of will to tear his eyes away. Lothíriel might play the part very prettily, but only until it interfered with some other, more enticing amusement, and unfortunately there was no way to simply bed the princess and have it done with. With a wince he remembered her words to the ambassador. Whatever husband Imrahil would choose for her had better be blessed with an extraordinary amount of patience, not to mention a gift for diplomacy.

As he finished off his ale, he observed a group of young ladies, tittering and giggling, approaching the table where Éomer and his principal riders had seated themselves. The fairest and boldest of them addressed him with an extravagant curtsy. "May we join you, my lords?"

He gestured at the half empty table. "Please."

To his bemusement, the lady instantly chose the empty seat closest to himself and leaned over the table to engage him in conversation. Not even in Rohan would a lady presume to do so without prior acquaintance, but he had found that Gondorian women could be strangely self-assured at times.

"What warm weather today, isn't it? It must be ever so stuffy in the upper hall. You must be longing to be finished and go out riding instead."

There had been one guilty moment in which Éomer indeed had felt so. "It is fine," he said. "It has been unseasonably warm for weeks."

"My friends and I went for a ride this morning and it was simply wonderful," continued the lady. "There is nothing like a brisk morning ride, don't you agree? My brother has always impressed this upon me: waking up is ever so much better on the back of a horse."

Éomer repressed the urge to gape at her. "Oh indeed?"

"Oh, but you must know my brother. Lord Glevredir of Minas Brethil. He is a Lieutenant of Gondor, and commanded our forces during the march on the Black Gate."

Éomer had to admit he had no memory of the man.

"Oh, he is prodigiously fond of horses. Indeed, we've always had some of the best stables in Gondor, and some of our bloodlines can be linked to famous steeds of your country. Why, I passed by your stallion in the stables yesterday – he is beautiful – very magnificent – and he reminds me so strongly of Tálagor, my brother's charger. Most people fear Tálagor on account of his size, but he is very fond of me. Of course, I could not ride him myself. He is too tall even for most men."

"You like horses, then?"

"Yes, I love horses. And good riders even more," she sent him a playful smile. "I fear I am quite spoiled, though. We went to see the Ithilien Rangers at their cavalry drills two days ago, and although my friends enjoyed it, I had expected them to be, well, a little bit more accomplished than they were. I get impatient you see; very impatient with ineptitude; my brother and my father before him were such excellent riders. Although no men of Gondor can ride quite like the Rohirrim can. And unfortunately," she laughed a self-deprecating giggle, "none of us ladies either, although I am myself not untalented – so say others at least - and very interested in improving myself in that area."

"The Swan Knights are more than adequate horsemen. Dol Amroth has great skill and traditions, and Princess Lothíriel rides very well," said Éomer curtly.

He caught a brief flash of something more complex in her eyes: irritation, perhaps. Then she babbled on in quite the same tone: "Oh yes, of course. You are great friends with them, are you not? My brother told me. Yes, indeed, they are a very fine family. Princess Lothíriel is such a delightful child; a little sheltered, perhaps, and a little wild, but that cannot be helped considering her mother's history, the poor thing. Say, perhaps you can introduce me to your stallion when the meetings are concluded? It would be ever so wonderful for me to have an opportunity to be near such a horse again."

Thankfully at that moment he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Hethlil looking at him with an apologetic smile. "My Lord, I am extremely sorry to have to whisk you away, but Princess Éowyn has been asking for you. It seemed there was some urgency!"

"Oh," he got to his feet instantly. "Well, the Lady of the House must be obeyed. Farewell, Lady errr…," he started, realising they had not even been introduced.

"Glavriel, my lord," said the lady with a last coquettish twirl.

Éomer hastily followed Hethlil down the hall.

"This is the second time you have come to my rescue this week," he said, once they were well out of earshot.

"I am merely honouring the alliance between our countries."

"You went beyond the call of duty this time, my lady. Just send word if ever you need saving," said Éomer. "After this heroic deed, my eored is at your disposal."

"How are they with sums?" said Hethlil with a sniff.

Éomer just laughed and shook his head.

"Very hot weather today," continued Hethlil, taking his proffered arm.

"So I have heard," said Éomer. "I have not had time to even glance out the window."

"Ah. I can describe the situation in more detail if you feel it prudent? I do believe I owe you at least one conversation on this topic."

"Consider that obligation met," said Éomer. "Did you enjoy the dance last night?"

"Indeed I did, very much so. And you, my lord?"

"Certainly more than the other few balls I have been forced to endure in your country."

"It seems our entertainments are growing on you."

They wandered out of doors in silence. Hethlil had a pensive look on her face that Éomer could not quite read.

"You seem fatigued, my lady. Could it be the weather? Or perhaps the many discussions you were forced to endure about it?" he asked eventually.

"Indeed, that is not it. I apologise. I was … wondering if and how I could get you to speak about the negotiations this morning without sounding too much like a prying ninny."

"Aha."

"My curiosity interfering with propriety, I'm afraid."

"The best way, my lady, is to ask."

He saw her grin and steel herself. "How did you find the Haradrim, my lord?"

"Neither noble nor honourable, but too afraid to be anything but sincere."

She looked surprised, but gratified at his straightforward response. "Afraid?"

"Their surrender has cost them in the eyes of their kin, and they seem eager to crush dissenters and convince themselves they have chosen the winning side." That Lord Dume seemed slippery as an eel, though. What that meant going forward, Éomer could not say.

"It seems there was not much talk of trade after all."

"They were surprisingly quick to come to the heart of the matter," admitted Éomer. What had the man said? Dancing was last night's entertainment. "Although trade came into our discussion as well."

"I am glad," said Hethlil. "And not surprised. King Elessar is a man above all others. He has inspired such loyalty in Gondor."

Éomer agreed, but nonetheless he felt forced to say: "Aye, loyalty among people who have been waiting for the return of a king for generations. I fear there may yet be many troubled years ahead."

They circled back into the hall and Éomer looked all around. "Do you know where Lothíriel is? I saw her earlier and had hoped to speak with her, but I cannot see her now."

"Princess Lothíriel?" Hethlil sounded a little taken aback. "She is occupied doing some task for her father today."

"Ah," and then, more to himself. "She seemed well, though."

"Aye," said Hethlil, half a step behind him. "I believe so."

* * *

 _A/N I am sorry for the very long wait and my inconsistent responses and updates, but today I am celebrating the end of a crazy semester and that wouldn't be complete without uploading the next chapter._

 _I'm still open to constructive criticism and love hearing your thoughts on Lothi and the story, so feel free to leave a review or send a message :-) Thank you as always for reading!_


	14. Of Friendship

**Of Friendship**

From the kitchen window, Lothíriel observed Hethlil and Éomer taking a turn around the garden. She was on his arm and he was smiling - an actual smile on the face of the King of Rohan - and they were speaking in low voices. Lothíriel studied the orange she had been about to start pulling apart, and was momentarily tempted to hurl it at them. Just to see the shock on their faces, of course. As if he felt he was being observed, Éomer suddenly looked up to the house, and Lothíriel ducked behind the window seat.

The council was over, the delegation of Harad had said their farewells the day before, and the population at Emyn Arnen was dwindling fast. The King and Queen would be leaving on the morrow, and as her father had business in the city he would accompany them. Afterwards, Imrahil would pay a long overdue visit to his principality in Dol Amroth and it had been decided – after some urgent words and imploring looks - that Lothíriel was to travel with him. She was desperate to see her home, Elphir and Galweth, and even Aunt Ivriniel, not to mention the two infant nephews she had yet to meet. For the moment, however, Lothíriel and Hethlil were to remain at Emyn Arnen to assist Éowyn with the cleanup.

The lady of the house appeared just as Lothíriel scrambled to her feet, and watched her in puzzlement. "What are you doing?"

"Ah, um, looking for a missing broach."

"In the kitchen?"

"I wanted to be thorough. My aunt gave me that broach. I fear it is likely lost forever," gloomed Lothíriel.

Éowyn made an impatient motion that conveyed no sympathy whatsoever. "Have you seen Hethlil?"

"Ah. She is showing your brother around the herb garden."

"Again?"

"There seem to be a lot of herbs," said Lothíriel lamely.

Éowyn looked out the window, and then slantwise at Lothíriel. "Hm. They have become fast friends indeed."

Lothíriel nodded soberly.

"I wonder…"

"Yes." The whole court had been wondering for days. To be the last to catch on even if the gossip involved one's own brother!

A frown appeared on Éowyn's face. "I am not sure they would suit."

 _Yes_ , echoed Lothíriel's mind before she could catch herself. Then loyalty to her friend stepped in. "Why ever not? Hethlil is quite perfect."

"Perhaps," mused Éowyn. "You know Hethlil well, and Edoras. Do you think she would be happy there?"

"I see no reason to doubt it."

"She just seems a little uppity to me."

Lothíriel barely resisted the urge to let out a huff, as in her opinion there were few people who could be as uppity as Éowyn when she was in one of her moods, and instead said: "If Hethlil suspects Edoras will not be to her liking, she will not accept a suit. She never does anything without thinking through all the details and possible outcomes."

"Ah well. Let us not get ahead of ourselves. My brother has been particularly dense of late when it comes to women."

oOo

While Hethlil and Éomer were studying herb lore or whatever pretext they used for their private conversations, and Raissel received a steady stream of attentions from some unknown admirer or other, Lothíriel began feeling rather isolated. She wandered onto the courtyard, but the bustle of departing guests only intensified her emotions.

Although she had her share of partners at the dance, and had never felt the need to retreat into a corner with an insipid smile plastered on her face, like some timid ladies were wont to do, there had hardly been a queue for her favour either. What was more, none of the young men who had paid court to her in the weeks after her coming of age had continued to do so. Indeed, they had not even sought her out. Lothíriel sat down on a bench and studied her nails nervously. What was going on? Had they also heard rumours of her impending engagement to a Haradrim lord? Or was her reputation more damaged than Hethlil had let on? Worse and worse: could it be that even with her money and connections something about her person was wanting?

Of course, Lothíriel did not want to get married, had no wish to be thus singled out or to exchange her happy state as the Princess of Dol Amroth for something inevitably less carefree and comfortable; but it rankled that no one had even tried to propose.

Lothíriel looked all around until her gaze settled on another whom she had not spoken to in days: Aldor. She knew he had been kept very busy assisting his king, but she also could not shake the feeling that he was deliberately avoiding her. She stretched out on the bench in that alluring, cat-like manner she had copied off her brother, but it had no effect. Annoyed, she got to her feet, wandered into his field of vision, caught his eyes and sent him a smile. Again he looked the other way! At last she was forced to call out his name in a most unladylike manner: "Aldor."

The boy turned around and inclined his head. "Princess."

"How have you been? I feel I have not seen you for days!"

"I am well, my lady, thank you." He stood, propriety dictating he should not now continue on his way without her leave, but Lothíriel could tell he wished to be elsewhere, and his discomfort stung her.

"As am I," she babbled at last. "Although it is dreadfully warm. It seems like summer will simply last forever this year. What are you doing?"

"I am fetching oil for my lord's armour. May I help you with anything, my lady?"

He bowed again, managing to seem nothing but deferent but avoiding her gaze at the same time. The boy had obviously been in Gondor far too long. "I…" For a moment Lothíriel considered giving him an outrageous order to spite him, but in the end such vindictiveness was not in her nature. "No, Aldor, I am fine. Please continue your task."

The boy hurried off in the opposite direction and Lothíriel stood perplexed. What was going on indeed? In a state of pensive absorption, she wandered off towards the barracks.

oOo

Rhanaer sat on the doorstep, cleaning his boots, and sent her such a warm smile that Lothíriel instantly felt somewhat lifted. She leaned against the doorframe, reaching up to chase a crane fly of the wall, and scrunched up her eyes at the afternoon sun.

"Princess Lothíriel. It is very good to see you. I feared you might have forgotten about your old friends."

"No need for dramatics," replied Lothíriel calmly. "We spoke but three days ago."

Rhanaer grinned. "I suppose that is true. Yet a very eventful three days."

"Perhaps not quite as eventful as expected."

"Oh?"

Lothíriel sat down next to him on the step. "For one, no one tried to poison King Elessar, or kill us while we slept. No mumakil have come to tear down the woods of Ithilien, and no deadly spiders were smuggled into the house," she repeated some of the more absurd fearmongering that had been rampant at court in the weeks before the council. "And I was not given in marriage to a lord of Harad."

"I see."

"Indeed, I am still here and unwedded, as you see."

"So you think there may be no agreement after all?"

"I know that there is none. There would have been no reason to postpone an announcement now."

"Perhaps," said Rhanaer, and at her look of annoyance he held up his hands. "I mean only that I could imagine you might yet be anxious. There must have been offers for your hand even before you came of age, and yet you were never informed. It would not appear your father plans to involve you in the decision at all."

"My father would never come to an arrangement over my head."

"You are certain?"

 _No._ "Yes," said Lothíriel.

A knowing smile. "You are very lucky to be so close to your father, and in his confidence. Not many could say the same."

"Perhaps not in his confidence per se," amended Lothíriel. "But he would not lie to me. When I spoke to him, he asserted that he had no plans for my betrothal, and the engagement was just a rumour."

"Ah. Well, I am happy for you. Forgive me, but you seemed quite dismayed at the prospect." He hesitated, then covered her hand with his. "And truthfully, it would have been a grievous loss to have you shipped off to Harad, so I am happy for Gondor as well."

"Happy for the country?"

"Well, some of its people in particular might have been very sad, perhaps," said Rhanaer.

Lothíriel glanced sideways at him from under her lashes, the carelessly tousled brown hair, broad shoulders and that charming smile… "Would you like to kiss me?" she asked.

His eyebrows rose and the smile widened. "Would I…," he started, but Lothíriel had taken his hand, pulled him to his feet and led him just around the corner of the empty guardhouse.

"See, I think you would. But it is always better to ask," she said wisely.

"Would you like me to kiss you?" asked Rhanaer, stepping closer and tucking a curl behind her ear.

Instead of answering him, she stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his, ever so quickly. The thrill that came with transgression swept through her.

"I suppose so. Yes, please kiss me," said Lothíriel, and he did.

It was not technically Lothíriel's first kiss – but it was the first kiss since she had been twelve and experimenting with a stable lad (that was before her conversation with her brothers; as afterwards she found she could not quite as convincingly ease Eradir's fears about the wrath of her family) – her first kiss as a woman; and her first kiss with a man. She tilted her head to the side as his lips met hers, and tried to surrender to his lead.

To Lothíriel's disappointment, she did not feel much more beyond polite curiosity at his exaggerated intensity, and an almost irrepressible urge to giggle at the way he tried to nip at her bottom lip. Rhanaer punctuated his attentions with strange low moans, as if he were enjoying a good meal, which was altogether a little distracting too. Yet it was a proper kiss, and there was something peculiarly satisfactory about finally committing the wrong she had been accused of, so it was not hard to return at least some of his enthusiasm.

After a few minutes she pushed him away, gently at first, then more insistent. He stood grinning at her; with a look she could not quite place but which compelled her to ensure that she was still fully dressed all the same.

"I think I shall check on Suldis," said Lothíriel when she had regained her composure. "She gets so restless now with all the bustle at the stables."

He bowed, all gallant and courteous. "I shall walk you there, if you wish."

oOo

Éomer did not care that some of the Gondorian squires gave him curious stares for grooming his own horse. He fed Firefoot some of the apples he had brought, and then brushed him out carefully, trimming and clipping here and there so that his friend might more easily endure the heat. Lothíriel was there as well – not attracting nearly as many stares as she absentmindedly braided Sulis's mane while chatting to that ranger, Rhanaer was his name. It was the fourth time in as many days that he saw them together, and their intimacy and the liberties the man took with her body – a casual touch of her hand, a brush of her shoulder - disturbed him. It was not just the ranger's shameless play at the princess, although certainly that was part of it and Lothíriel was a fool to so risk her virtue and reputation, but the man had bugged him from that night Lothíriel had gone to him for medicine for Aldor, and only recently had he understood why.

It had been a familiar nightmare that had provided the answer. It was not blood and battle that came back to haunt Éomer in his sleep – no – it was stillness: Éowyn, lying as dead on the battlefield, Théodred, alone at the Fords of the Isen, the dark of the dungeons of Edoras, and the faces of his men on that doomed march on the Black Gate surrounded by the silent menace of the wraiths... Their faces at the desolation before the Emyn Muil, some unable to go any further, herdsmen and stablehands, so very young and so very afraid – his fault; he led them there! - and among them a few Gondorian farmboys, and one brown-haired ranger with an easy smile. The ranger had not even listened to Aragorn's words of mercy, nor taken up the new task graciously offered, so eager was he to ride off, while the other boys set out for Cair Andros, never to return home... Taking slow, deep breaths and letting memory replace the relentless replay of his dreams, Éomer had grimaced in the dark of his bedroom as at last his misgivings fell into place.

He could not blame the man for his fear or for deserting that day – when all had been so dark and desperate that even his most seasoned riders had been unable to shake the weight pressing on their chests. But to ride off without shame or apology, and to carry himself with such arrogance now… Éomer clenched his fists and wondered if in fact anyone even knew of his defection. Most of the Ithilien Rangers – and not many had remained after that fearful day on the Pelennor - had been left behind at the Crossroads to defend the city from the threat of the Morgul Vale. Rhanaer would have ridden among strangers, his cowardice easily concealed upon his return. Still, he supposed it would be beneath him to expose him. He deserved a second chance to prove himself. If only the man could keep his distance from Lothíriel, who was miles above him in station and spirit both.

After he had finished picking the shavings out of Firefoot's tail, he went in search of Hethlil for their planned afternoon walk. As ever, walking and conversing with Hethlil was very pleasant, like a drink of cool, clean water at the end of a warm day. Her words were not exactly new or revolutionary, but calm and full of good sense, and they helped clear his own mind.

She asked him many questions about Rohan and its people, and he confided in her how in the past year he had almost felt like he should be buried under the burdens that had fallen onto his shoulders, which prompted her to ask if he did not have advisers to help him.

"To be sure. Yet I do not wish to make the same mistake my uncle did, and put too much power and knowledge in the hand of one man."

"Is there then no one you trust, my lord?"

"My riders. But good soldiers do not necessarily make good politicians, and most do not have the family and connections required for such a position."

"Yet you were never a politician before, and never meant to be king either. And your riders, wherever they came from, have seen much and more that must have made them wiser," said Hethlil with a smile. "After the war, there were many empty strongholds in Gondor, and many good men who deserved them, even if they had neither birth nor precedent. King Elessar brought back our kin from the north also. Of course you wish to treat the structures of your uncle's reign with respect, but it is the dawn of a new age, and we must not be afraid to change." She blushed then. "I talk too much."

"Please," he said. "What you say is true, and you do not offend me."

She inclined her head, hair glinting red in the sunshine, as they passed along the brook and sat down in the shade of a willow tree.

"Hethlil, do you know of a man named Rhanaer?" said Éomer.

The look she gave him was puzzled. "I have not heard that name. I do not think he is among our guests."

"He is one of Faramir's rangers," said Éomer. "He seems to be unusually friendly with Lothíriel."

"Oh," said Hethlil.

"I wondered if she had mentioned him."

"No."

"Or if you had ever seen them together."

"Maybe. I do not quite recall."

"But have you ever noticed her disappearing, or has she ever come late to bed at night?"

"Lothíriel is my friend. I do not feel comfortable gossiping about her."

Éomer felt chastened and taken aback. He could not remember ever having been called a gossip before. He flushed as he realised how inappropriate his question had been. "Of course," he said. "I would not wish you to tell tales." In his defense, it was hard not to be more than usually curious and anxious about Lothíriel. One could not help wonder what would become of her. "I merely wondered if she had said anything to make you suspect an attachment."

"I – no, I honestly can say that I have not," said Hethlil after a moment. "Lothíriel is not particularly good at dissembling. I am certain I should know were it anything serious." She folded her hands in her lap. "Lothíriel has made friends with the strangest people for as long as I have known her."

His squire. His captain. His cook. This was different.

"You will do her reputation more harm than good if you continue talking about it," said Hethlil a little coolly.

Éomer leaned back on his hands and changed the subject. They spoke of other things until the sun disappeared behind the trees and he had to excuse himself, but he left determined not to let the matter rest.

oOo

Erchirion and Amrothos were the obvious choice to speak to next, although he found that when it came to it, he was surprisingly uncomfortable at what amounted to tattling on Lothíriel. Yet, as he assured himself, would not he have wished to know if the matter had involved Éowyn? They were sitting in the now strangely quiet orangery and, in a few brief sentences, he told the brothers of the intimacy he had observed between their sister and the ranger.

To his annoyance, neither of Lothíriel's brothers were quite as wild with rage as they ought to be.

"So, what do you propose we do?" said Erchirion at last.

"My suggestion is that you have a talk with her, because she certainly won't listen to a word I say."

"My sister is not that difficult to handle. Let's see. When we were children, I used to hide five white pebbles around the castle and would refuse to talk to her until she found them all. This could keep her busy and distracted for days."

Erchirion cocked an eyebrow and rested his head in his hand. "You are suggesting we set up a scavenger hunt to distract Lothíriel from her lover?"

"Lover, lover. Let's not exaggerate. Anyway, I have not tried it in years. It might well still work."

"It never worked past the first time," said Erchirion.

"Nonsense. It worked for years."

"After the first time, Lothi just went to the beach and collected five new white rocks, and then would restore them to you after what she deemed an appropriate interval of time."

"Surely not. The last time I did it, it took her a week to find them all. Mind you, I'd almost given up on the whole endeavour. It was getting rather tiresome to have to pretend she was not there all the time…" Echirion coughed as realisation dawned on Amrothos. "Ah. I see. What a little sneak."

"Look here," said Éomer impatiently. "Lothíriel is neither five years old, nor a bloodhound, and I came to you because I hoped you would have some sensible suggestions about how to handle this situation. I can see now how that was stupidly trusting and optimistic."

"Perhaps we should tell father," said Erchirion.

"I wouldn't interfere with Lothíriel's affairs in such a manner unless I saw no other option, and neither should you," said Amrothos. "After all, it would set a bad precedent."

"Ah yes, I had not thought of that," said Erchirion. "Do you think we should confront the man?"

"Why, though? That sounds unnecessarily tedious and prosaic."

It had been many months since Éomer had been so tempted to punch Amrothos. "Your sister might be in danger of some profligate fortune-hunter! Would you honestly be so casually and callously negligent?"

"Éomer – please," Erchirion started to his feet. "Of course we take this seriously, but my sister is a grown woman."

"Ha!" said Éomer.

"No such thing until they are married," said Amrothos wisely. "Then it is up to the husband to decide whether they may consider themselves grown or not. I venture "The Gondorian Maiden's Guide to Proper Deportment" also made it to Rohan, Éomer?"

"Amrothos, stop playing the fool," said Erchirion before Éomer could retort. "Éomer is right; we must look out for Lothíriel."

Amrothos put down his goblet and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Very well. Look, I shall keep an eye on them both. The moment I suspect this Rhanaer has ill intentions beyond the usual, or is causing Lothíriel harm in any way, I will run him through on the spot. Until then, I think we can allow Loth a minor indiscretion or two."

"The court may be less forgiving than we are," said Erchirion with raised eyebrows.

"Define 'beyond the usual'," growled Éomer.

"He would not be the first soldier thrilled at the thought of stealing a kiss from a princess. And indeed, Lothíriel would not be the first princess eager to misbehave a little. This is nothing out of the ordinary."

"I hope you know what you are doing," said Éomer.

"We are speaking of illicit affairs of the heart. Of course I know what I am doing," said Amrothos.

"That, I suppose, is true," said Erchirion.

Éomer sat back in his seat and said nothing. To be sure, he knew Amrothos well enough to trust that he spoke more flippantly than he intended to act, but the unease in his chest would not settle. Rhanaer had already proven to value his life beyond his honour. What else would he value higher than that?

oOo

Raissel sat on the bed, rolling and tying up her stockings with nimble concentration. "I'm so glad Lord Corwion is gone. I know one is not supposed to say, but I thought he behaved very ill.

"I agree with you," said Hethlil, already half-dressed. "His attentions made everyone very uncomfortable. I would wish he were wed, but I am not perfectly sure if it would even dissuade him."

"Indeed, there is something quite menacing in his manner. And no more Lord Awarthon either. He is a kind man but it gets tiresome to find oneself engaged in conversation all the time."

"He is just lonely since his wife passed away," said Hethlil.

"He must be. I am certain he proposed to everyone at the ball who was even the slightest bit eligible!"

Lothíriel halted while washing her hands, and then splashed more water in her face.

"Honestly, Raissel, you exaggerate," said Hethlil.

"Perhaps he is not proposing as such, but he paid court to me early in the week, and to Rodwen as well. And I saw him speaking to you, Hethlil."

"He is just trying to find a connection."

Lothíriel flung her used towel on a chair where Maeneth picked it up and folded it away. "I thought you might like him, Hethlil," she said in an offhand tone. "After all, he has a fine estate, and he is learned and broad-minded."

"He is old," said Raissel. "Why, he must be nearly three times our age! Besides, Hethlil has a far more attractive and eligible suitor."

Hethlil turned to rummage through her jewels. "I am sure I have no idea what you mean," she said.

"King Éomer of Rohan, of course. He seems to like you well."

"He is not my suitor," said Hethlil curtly. "We just talk."

"Oh come, Hethlil." Raissel folded her legs beneath her and reached over to grab a forgotten piece of ribbon from the nightstand. "Whatever do you talk about?"

"Well, not the weather," said Hethlil pointedly, causing Raissel to deflate a little.

"It's perfectly stupid not to enjoy discussing the weather," said Lothíriel from her corner. "Just think about how different weather patterns influence farming, flowers, animals; the way people live together. Indeed, I should think a king should pay more attention to the subject, not less."

Raissel giggled, but Hethlil's frown suggested she was not amused. "We talk of many things. The political situation in Rohan and Gondor, mainly."

"What, truly?"

"Yes, Lothíriel," said Hethlil with some irritation. "Some of us care about the world around us."

"That is not what I mean. I'm just surprised he would confide in you. He seems so… reserved and intractable, at times."

"I have not found him so."

"So what does he say?"

Hethlil cast her an odd look. "Why are you so interested?"

Lothíriel gazed at her reflection in the glass, and pulled at her curls. "I am not."

"Well, I think it is wonderful," said Raissel from the bed. "And I am happy for you."

Hethlil did not respond as she let Maeneth help her into her chosen dress for the evening. It was dark green, with long, flaring sleeves, a simple silhouette and a low waist that emphasised Hethlil's tall and slender figure so that she seemed a statue come to life.

"Oh Hethlil, that is stunning," said Raissel in awe. Lothíriel could only agree.

She looked at the options Maeneth had laid out on the bed for her, was dissatisfied with all of them, and walked back to the wardrobe where she quickly found what she was looking for. "I will wear this one," she said, holding the gown Queen Arwen gave her at Edoras in front of her.

"Are you certain? Lothíriel, I'm afraid it will fit you rather explicitly," said Hethlil with pursed lips.

Lothíriel was in no mood for euphemisms. "It is not too small. Queen Arwen made this for me."

"Over a year ago."

"The fabric has lost none of its shine, and it is very pliant." She held it out in front of her and wrapped it around her waist. "And it is such a flattering colour."

"Well, I am not saying it would not become you, Lothíriel."

"Certainly," said Lothíriel. "Besides, Amrothos says a pleasing figure can never be too explicit."

"Lothíriel!" came Raissel's scandalised voice.

"I wonder when you will stop listening to your brother," said Hethlil. "You sound like a complete fool, parroting him."

"Oh, you think so? He likes you," teased Lothíriel.

"Yes, well, that is how it works out sometimes," said Hethlil. "Lothíriel, the dress is not suitable."

"Please, no one present will care, or is like to even notice. Besides, this is the Fourth Age, and we are young."

"Fine," said Hethlil, while Lothíriel spun an imploring twirl. "Yes, you will look very well. Although whatever is the matter with you lately I would not dare to guess at."

oOo

The Great Hall of Emyn Arnen was in a state of ambivalence that night. Most of the guests had left, yet the staff had not had time to reorganise the furniture, and the rangers were still taking their meals at the barracks, so that the long tables seemed awkward, and there was a strange surplus of empty chairs. Banners of the House of Hurin and Rohan hung from the walls, visibly dusty now that the hall was so devoid of the usual crowds. Yet Éowyn, Arwen and her maids had made do with what they had. There were musicians playing in the corner, their jigs cheerful and informal, garlands of flowers and reddened leaves, while the scent of spices and roasts made the Hall seem less desolate than it could have been. Éomer studied the stonecrop and goldenrod used to dress the tables. Whatever the heat might suggest, autumn had fallen on Ithilien at last, and in the lands north of the mountains, in Rohan, the cold would be setting in and the herds kept in pasture would be blanketed as the night air dropped below freezing… He thought of his people, who would enter the winter with full stores and adequate shelter, with so much more confidence than the year before, and yet the thought of the cold season called him home: so much to do, so much to be on guard for. So lost was he in his thoughts that it took him a while to realise that Princess Lothíriel had joined them and was caught in some battle of wills with Éothain.

"Ho, what is happening here?" he asked, when he saw Lothíriel with her arms folded, idly tapping her foot against the bench on which they were sitting.

"Apologies, my lord. I am trying to get Éothain to tolerate our food, but he is being rather mulish about it."

"Are you trying to poison my captain?"

"It is only chicken."

"It is yellow," said Éothain with a combination of distaste and wariness.

"That is the saffron. Truly, it is very good." She turned on her feet and offered the dish to him. "Will you try some, my lord? I requested especially that the cook forego some of the heavier spices."

She was beautiful tonight, less formally attired than he had seen her in a while, in a dress that was just a little tight in exactly the right places, and Éomer could not have refused even if he had wished it. Fortunately, Lothíriel had spoken truthfully. The flavour was unique, but somewhat wonderful, and the cook must have outdone herself in the preparation as the chicken fell from the bone as soon as he touched it.

"It's excellent," he pronounced.

"See?" said Lothíriel to Éothain. "That is why he is king and you are not."

"Oh, is that why?" murmured Éothain, but he laughingly pushed the plate away when Lothíriel once again moved it in his direction. Éomer did not blame him. If friendship with Lothíriel was anything like friendship with Amrothos, Éothain had probably already found himself sampling _pupur_ and spending the next two hours with his mouth on fire. She was so easy, so naturally flirty with him, with all his men. Aye, the girl had turned into a real coquette, and again he felt afraid.

"Lothi, spare me a minute and come sit by me. I need to speak with you."

He had to try, didn't he? He owed it to Imrahil. He took her arm and led her to a quiet corner, where she sat down across from him, her expression wary and her eyes flitting here and there. He cut to the chase quickly, but, as expected, Lothíriel would not hear him.

"It is nothing of consequence. We are just friendly."

"He seeks you out constantly."

"Yes, because we are friends."

"Why would he be so interested in you?"

"It must be so very difficult for you to imagine that any man might just actually like me."

He sighed with exasperation. "Once again you manage to completely miss the point." He noticed the burgeoning storm behind her cool expression –when had it become so easy to gauge her moods?- and he adjusted his tone. "Lothi, I don't trust him. I fear he is playing some deeper game."

"What game?"

"Do not be naïve. You know who you are."

"You are mistaken. He has always behaved and spoken to me like a true gentleman," said the Princess with some emphasis.

"He is a soldier."

"I would not expect you to be so prejudiced."

"It is not about prejudice. You have no idea where he came from. You cannot know what is in his mind."

She puffed her cheeks, ever so slightly. "I do not see how any of this can possibly concern you."

"Sometimes I forget just how impossibly stubborn you are. Can you not recognise well-meant advice when it is given?"

"I am not sure, my lord," said Lothíriel. "Can you?"

His mind flashed back to their breakfast in the garden, and his hand throbbed a little in memory. "Just humour me, Lothíriel, and be careful in your dealings with him."

"Why must you be so meddlesome? I already have my father and three brothers telling me what to do."

"And I already have a sister with a penchant for getting herself into trouble."

"Yes, and we are not brother and sister."

"No, we certainly are not," said Éomer absentmindedly, noting again the slight curve of the hips underneath the dress, and the way the neckline left everything and nothing to the imagination. When he looked into her eyes again, they seemed unusually bright.

"So, then we are agreed, my lord. And you will stop lecturing me?"

"Very well – enough," he said. "You should do as you believe to be right. Yet so should I, and as your friend I have a right to be concerned.

"We are friends?"

"Are we not?"

"If this constant squabbling is what you expect from a friendship," said Lothíriel, gesturing at the space between them, "I no longer have to wonder why you get along so well with my brother." She rose to her feet, stepped away, seemed to think the better of it, and leaned against the table. "I would like us to be friends. Considering the circumstances, it really is rather outrageous that we are not. And you were kind to me the other night. I have not forgotten."

Her tone was so matter-of-fact and candid that he could not help it and laughed.

Lothíriel seemed a trifle annoyed. "If you think it is impossible for men and women to be friends, I'll have you know it is perfectly common in Gondor."

"You mistake my meaning." For the umpteenth time. "I would like us to be friends, too," he added in the most demure tone he could muster.

"Very well," said Lothíriel.

"Is there some sort of ritual? Should I sign a document? A blood oath?"

She tapped her finger to her lips. "Eradir and I used to make newcomers sneak into my Aunt's private sitting room and steal brandy from her dresser. That would perhaps be a little undignified now."

He laughed again; and she grinned back at him.

"How about we just shake on it?"

"Very well," said Lothíriel, and that was that.

After a few counts, Éomer said: "Will you do one thing for me, now that we are officially friends?"

"Our friendship is not yet a minute old and already you are calling in favours?" He laughed at her disgruntled expression. "Do not make me regret this." She tapped her fingers to her chin. "Well, out with it. What is this favour?"

"Will you call me Éomer, like your father and brothers do?"

She glanced at him with some surprise, then the right corner of her mouth curled upward – rather sardonically, but irrepressible. "If you wish. Éomer."

His name sounded like a song in her soft southern accent. "Thank you."

"And then you have my permission to call me Lothíriel," she continued, emphasising every unwieldy syllable.

"Thank you, Lothi, That is very generous."

"Incorrigible barbarian," she muttered under her breath, but before she turned away, he could see her grin was wide and genuine this time, and for the rest of the night, he occasionally felt her eyes on him, and was glad.

oOo

"Where is Raissel? I am feeling quite spent; I will fall asleep on my feet if I do not get myself to bed soon. Maeneth, you must wait for her in the antechamber."

"She said not to wait up," said Hethlil, already under the covers and braiding her hair into a simple plait for the night. "She overslept when she took a rest this afternoon, and thinks she shall be up a while."

"Very well," said Lothíriel, slipping into bed besides Hethlil and rubbing her feet together to warm them. "The nights are getting colder, do you notice?"

Hethlil was silent for a moment. "Lothíriel, I will return to Minas Tirith with the King and Queen's party on the morrow."

Lothíriel sat up in surprise. "I thought Raissel was going."

"Raissel will stay here in my stead."

"Hethlil, why?"

"I find myself rather weary of the countryside," her tone was airy, but her smile not quite so.

"Liar. You love the countryside."

"I am sure we shall see each other again soon."

"Of course. I just – I don't understand."

Hethlil turned over without responding and Lothíriel stared up at the tester, tracing the shadows cast on the fabric by the flickering candlelight.

After a minute or two Hethlil spoke again: "I wonder what it is that you want in life, Lothíriel?"

Lothíriel bit her lip and turned to her friend, resting her head on her hands. "The same as anyone, I imagine. I want to do something right. Something good."

"Some great deed worthy of song? Like Princess Éowyn?"

"No, I. – Maybe. I do not know... I hope for something a little more, you know, fun."

"Fun?"

"Yes, merry, and less… fateful and all-important."

"Your great deed seems to me like it could work out a little trivial." Hethlil's eyes were bright and dark in the half-light.

"I have not given it much thought," said Lothíriel honestly.

"But do you want marriage? And children?"

"Well, that is inevitable. I am my father's only daughter, and he at least is determined I shall have both." She turned over and wrapped herself more securely in the blankets. "I thought you were asking what I want in life. Like, I've been really wanting to master the one foot stand while jumping Suldis, but I cannot seem to get my balance right."

"Oh, Lothíriel, you are so tiresome."

"I should hope so. It is late, and I want to go to sleep. Why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular," said Hethlil. And then: "I sometimes fear you are taking up arms against a system without a cause, and it will leave you unhappy."

Lothíriel bit back the first, not entirely truthful response that came to mind: _I don't know what you mean_. "Do not worry. The absence of a cause is not important enough to me to sacrifice my happiness over." She pondered for a moment, and then added in a soft voice: "I think I do hope for children. And love – perhaps – some day." And to share the bed of a handsome man who desired her and she desired in turn, but she did not say that. Some wishes one could not even express to one's best friend. "It is just hard to think that some day I shall simply be someone other than Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."

"The point of a political match," said Hethlil, "is that you shall always also be Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."

It was a _good_ point, not something she had ever considered before, and strangely cheering. Lothíriel grinned, turned to give her friend a quick peck on the cheek, and then blew out the candles.

* * *

 _A/N_ pupur _is Welsh for pepper. I chose to use it because there is no Sindarin word for any spicy foods or ingredients as far as I could find, and I wanted to emphasise that it is foreign to the Rohirrim, while still making it sound recognisable enough._

 _There are also two lines lifted and adapted from Emma in this chapter:_

"There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!"

"Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper."  
"Brother and sister! no, indeed."

 _Happy solstice! And happy birthday to me!_

 _As always, a big thank you to everyone who reviewed; it's what makes sharing this so pleasant!_

 _Leo – Yes, "poor" Eomer, suffering under all that female attention. I agree, I don't think Glavriel is all that bad for simply addressing him; and I have to admire her boldness; but of course I had to give a nod to the enormous social faux-pas this is in Austen. Happy to hear you liked the chapter!_

 _PoemstheEarth – Don't ever worry, the story will get finished, I just sometimes have to force it down my list of writing priorities (even if I don't really want to). I'm so glad it cheered you up! As for Lothiriel, I've actually had a few conversations about her character development recently, and indeed it is perfectly valid to be annoyed with her at this point. :-) Without wanting to give too much away, or force anyone's interpretation, these next few chapters will be quite eventful and force Lothiriel to be at least a little self-reflective._


	15. Much, Much Beyond Impropriety

**Much, Much Beyond Impropriety**

During the night, autumn winds blew through the forest of Ithilien, and in their wake came the promise of cooler days. The next day Lothíriel sat at breakfast with King Éomer and Amrothos, who was being very dull indeed because he had once again had too much wine the night before. Torn between chagrin and sympathy, she indulged her brother as best she could – not completely without self-interest.

"Remember we were to ride to the edge of the forest with the king's party so we could have a picnic and say our farewells to everyone there," said Lothíriel, after returning from the kitchens with the brew Amrothos had requested.

"On whose orders?"

"Amrothos! You yourself said you would take me."

Her brother stretched his legs under the table, and carefully sipped his tea. "Ah, well, then no."

"You have to. You promised me last night."

Amrothos shook his head as he put the mug down. "Perhaps I did – I cannot recall – but I do not feel like it today." He raised his eyebrows as she puffed her cheeks at him. "You may take this as a wise lesson about men's faithlessness."

"Oh come, don't be such a dullard! I have been longing for a proper ride for weeks and they will not let me go by myself."

"Tough luck. Now be good and hand me those berries. I think I should like something sweet."

Lothíriel thrust the bowl at him with a bit more force than necessary, then turned away and put her head in her chin with a heavy sigh, determined to at least make her brother feel sorry about the situation. Faithless indeed!

"I could take her," she heard Éomer's voice across the table. Her breath caught mid-sigh, but she determinedly stared away into the distance, as if she could somehow pretend she could not hear them.

"Éomer, there is no need," said her brother. "The occasional disappointment is very healthy for my sister."

"It is no trouble," said Éomer. "My men and I would enjoy the ride too."

"You are very generous," said Amrothos. "But I am sure our father…"

Lothíriel kicked him under the table before her brother could say something sanctimonious about the impropriety of the proposal. "Thank you, my lord," _Éomer._ But no, it was still too hard and familiar to say in front of Amrothos,"it is not far to the edge of the woods, and I am sure we shall be very merry." She met the king's eyes and he grinned at her and – rather unaccountably – Lothíriel felt herself flush.

She rode with Hethlil, who rode astride – not for any revolutionary purpose but because it was practical, she said – and they exchanged some last minute choice bits of gossip. Lothíriel tried to assess her friend's mood, but unlike last night Hethlil seemed much as she always did. Perhaps her tone was somewhat more brisk than usual. And had she made more than the common effort with her hair? It was impossible to draw any sensible conclusions. When they reached the end of the woods, just a mile from the river crossing, they halted for refreshments and Lothíriel bade farewell to her father and Erchirion. With father set to spend most of the winter season in Dor-en-Ernil, Erchirion would have to remain in Minas Tirith and miss their Mettarë celebrations at Dol Amroth, so Lothíriel might not see him until the New Year.

She stood on the tips of her toes to kiss his brow one last time. "Don't get too grave and gloomy in my absence."

She sidled up next to her father, who was speaking to Éomer, and repeating his invitation to join them in Dol Amroth before his return to Rohan. Then the Prince turned to her, and she embraced him and buried her face in his tunic, clasping her arms around him so tightly that she knew she would be hurting him, were he any other man. It was silly to make such a spectacle of herself, but the memories of other goodbyes were raw in her mind, and he was getting older and it was getting harder to let go. Even if it were only for two weeks or so, as her father patiently reminded her.

On the way back, Lothíriel rode next to Éomer, just as if they were friendly, which they were. Still, she could not help but feel uncomfortable with the way he loomed over her, the great king on his great horse, and so – to give herself a little bit of extra height – she pulled up her legs and kneeled rather than sat on Suldis's back. This, of course, meant she could no longer guide her horse with her legs, and when Suldis swerved off the path, she grabbed her mane and steered her in the right direction.

Éomer looked on with a frown. "You make her nervous if you pull her mane like that. Just sit down or use reins if you cannot control her otherwise."

"I can control her just fine," said Lothíriel haughtily. Then she remembered who she was talking to and tempered her pride. "It's simpler this way. She is always a little slow and inattentive in her responses if I rely on my seat only."

"That is because of _your_ antics and lack of skill, not hers."

The king was making civility difficult as usual. "Hmpf."

They rode in silence for a while, and Lothíriel observed Éomer from the corner of her eyes; the way he held his reins loosely in one hand; his straight back; all his movements almost nonchalant and just right. It was not flashy, but it was beautiful, almost if Firefoot and he were one and the same creature. So absorbed was she in cataloguing and admiring his style that she did not see they were about to ride into a ditch half-hidden under leaves and branches until it was almost too late to stop. Fortunately, Éomer had been paying closer attention to the path, and with a low "woah" he led Firefoot around. To her annoyance, she felt Suldis come to an almost complete stop at the sound of the king's voice. It did not go unnoticed. "She is smart. You should teach her to respond to voice commands only if you are determined to forego the reins and bridle."

"I have tried," said Lothíriel, still annoyed, "but I cannot seem to get her to heed me."

"Ah yes. Of course it would be difficult for you." At her question he explained: "Your voice. It's - soft and sweet," Lothíriel could not shake the feeling that Éomer's hesitation indicated that he had originally less flattering adjectives in mind, "Suldis will have a harder time recognising any commands you give. Indeed, I have found women and boys in general struggle with this more than men."

"That is unfair. I did not think horses would be so prejudiced."

"Also," went on the unrelenting lecture, "you can tell that she wants to obey you, but half the time she knows not what you want her to do."

"I thought she was smart."

"Indeed, but you're too concerned about what _you_ can do, and too impatient. You have to take her along."

"Perhaps you are right," said Lothíriel with a sigh. "Or perhaps I can get my brother to teach me to speak in a pleasant baritone."

She caught him smile briefly and then he said, rather abruptly: "Do you know the elven tongue, Lothi?"

She nodded. "I learned it as a child. Although it is not heard much in Gondor now, and we use it but rarely even at court."

"I heard both Legolas and Aragorn speak to their horses in the language of the elves, and any command uttered in that tongue was instantly followed. Legolas's horse Arod was one of our own, but it was as if he understood the elf's every word. Perhaps it will help you too."

Lothíriel was unsure. "I think Suldis will know me for a fraud."

"Perhaps not. After all, it is in your blood."

Oh yes, elven princess Lothíriel. She imagined herself in a flowing gown, with that twilight glow in her eyes, hair spilling freely down her back; an old, beloved fantasy. She moved her legs out from under her so that she slid back into a normal seating position, then leaned forward to pat Suldis's neck and quickly whispered _sell vaer_ in her ear. Suldis whickered softly and instantly her gait became more smooth and straight. Interesting. So they rode in silence until the rain started to fall, filtered by the foliage, soft and warm as summer, but still, rain at last! The smell of earth filled the air, and the sun turned the raindrops to white. She turned her face to the sky, reveling in the feeling of stray droplets sliding down her face and neck, and the fabric of her tunic growing heavy and clinging to her body.

"How lovely to ride in the rain," said Lothíriel. "It is a shame Raissel would not come with us. Rain is such romantic weather."

She found Éomer looking at her rather queerly, and at her raised eyebrows he turned to face forward, holding onto his reins a little more tightly than before. "Was not Raissel to return to Minas Tirith to attend Arwen?" he asked absentmindedly.

"Yes, and Hethlil was to stay. It seems they decided to swap plans."

"I wonder why Hethlil did not tell me so yesterday."

Lothíriel halted; unsure what to say without blurting out all the questions her curiosity begged her to ask. "I think it was a spontaneous decision. So she said nothing to you?"

"No, not even when we said goodbye. She was not very forthcoming at all. I felt she may have been annoyed with me, though I know not why."

"Hm," said Lothíriel. "Perhaps it was something you said? Perhaps you implied she was ill-favoured or unsightly in any way?"

"No. Why ever would I do that?" She grinned at him until she saw the memory resurface in his eyes, and with a groan he said: "Lothi…"

"Perhaps you have nothing to worry about. Perhaps it is simply because a well-intentioned friend reminded her to act with more decorum."

"Get out of here, you pest."

Lothíriel laughed, spurred on Suldis to the head of the column and was the first through the gates of Emyn Arnen.

oOo

When Lothíriel had first come to Emyn Arnen, she had spent much of her days exploring the gardens. Éowyn and Faramir's new home had been built on the remains of an older ancestral seat that had been in Faramir's family for generations, and whereas the house had been almost completely renovated, the gardens were designed around the existing patches and wildernesses, and almost deliberately left untamed and discordant. Every path and turn seemed to lead her to fresh discoveries: brooks and groves and crumbling walls, and she loved the adventure of it. Early in the morning on the third day of her visit, she had made her way through a dense little woodland to the top of a hill, where she had found a spectacular view amidst gnarly olive trees, blooming sage and an ancient stone well. It was a quiet place, eerie, the light unusually grey. The well seemed deep, endlessly so, and a musty smell hung heavy in the air. She had sat upon the broad well-head and peered down. Carved in the stone were handles, steps almost, old, overgrown, disappearing into the darkness. For someone to climb down? Or for someone – something – to climb up? Remembering stories of ghouls and goblins and the terrifying underground, Lothíriel drew a shuddering breath and dangled her legs over the rim, a tingling sensation creeping up from her toes until her legs felt ablaze with anxiety, as if something could emerge from the deep at any moment to pull her down, down, down. She tried to rein in her unease, relax into her position and carelessly swing her legs back and forth, but it was too late. She was afraid, and the challenge was set.

It was the one rule Lothíriel had made for herself. A childish rule. No more than a bit of superstition she could not shake. The rule was that if she was scared to do something, she had to do it. Step onto a high-rise tightrope. Do a back flip off the cliffs of Dol Amroth. Jump her brother's destrier sideways – without permission. As long as she could overcome fear and misgivings, no one could say she was less brave than her father and brothers. But if she let that tightening of her throat, that sinking feeling in her stomach, that little tremble in her hands defeat her, it would be all over: she would not be Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, she would not be her father's daughter, she would just be another girl, largely pointless and utterly dependent. Descending into the depths of the earth? Just another thing heroines should do without question. In terms of agility, it would not be a difficult feat, at least as far down as she could see, but it was dark, and the air was laden, and who knew just how many steps to the bottom? She shifted her weight and then lowered herself into the well. The first step seemed to easily hold her. Crouching down, she reached for the next handle; not too far and just as sturdy. So it could be done. She got to her feet and saw her hands were stained black from the moss.

Perhaps she should change first, or she'd certainly soil her white morning dress beyond repair. Besides, would it not be that much scarier at dusk, or in the light of the moon?

She clicked her tongue, cursing her imagination. Well, after dark it was.

At dinner, she had casually mentioned her discovery to Faramir.

"The well is as old as the estate itself," explained Faramir. "Perhaps even older. My ancestors found these lands cultivated when they arrived and the stones are quite distinct from the ones you find in Ithilien."

"It did seem different there somehow," said Lothíriel. "Almost as if I had taken a wrong turn and found myself somewhere else entirely."

"Why do I know nothing of this well?" asked Éowyn, intrigued.

"It is a little out of the common way. I shall walk you there after dinner, if you wish. It is not that difficult a climb, and it is a tranquil, ancient place."

So Lothíriel climbed the hill for a second time, in the company of her cousins, feeling a bit like a cheat, but also telling herself that research and preparation were part of successful heroics. Éowyn, heavy with Elboron then still, sat down on the rim with a weary sigh and commented on the smell. "It is not unpleasant," she said, sniffing. "Although I cannot quite tell what it is."

"Yes. We checked the water when we first arrived. Sauron's armies poisoned so many of these lands. But it is very clear, and very clean, and the wall is intact all the way down. It's too far from the kitchens or stables to be much use, though."

Lothíriel started. "You went down the well?"

"Yes, see, that is what these steps are for. They are a little overgrown here and there, but perfectly functional. One hardly needs a bucket."

Lothíriel leaned down over the rim and with the sun high in the sky, she could see the end of the spiraling steps and the water's surface for herself. Disappointed, she dropped a pebble into the water and watched the circles grow and grow. No monsters or dead bodies, then. At least it would make a good ghost story for the babe, once he was a little older. (Faramir would not like it, but every child deserved a few imagined chills to liven up the commonplace of their surroundings, in Lothíriel's opinion, especially one with such heroic parents who looked to be born in a time of peace).

Relieved of her adventurous duty on account of no longer being scared, the well had become rather a favourite spot to sit and read, just out of the common way, and high enough that she could keep an eye on the courtyard in case something exciting happened. This afternoon she had brought one of Raissel's volumes - full of long and melancholy poems – and sat cross-legged in the grass, enjoying the rhythm of the verses and the afternoon sun when a voice interrupted the ponderous words on the page.

"My lady. Very studious today, I see."

Lothíriel squinted against the sun. "Rhanaer. How did you find me here?" She lowered her eyes and pretended to focus on her poetry. "This is my secret place, you know. I cannot have people know I read for pleasure. They might consider me an uncontrollable independent."

"I would find you anywhere." He sat beside her, took the book out of her hands and ran his fingers through her hair. A little irritated and a little titillated, Lothíriel turned to tell him off, but before she could speak he had gathered her into his arms and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling the grass tickle her feet and ankles, feeling his beard against her cheeks, wondering how best to put a stop to this, and not really wanting to stop all at the same time. He lifted her to her feet – so easy that she almost failed to notice - and then he pushed her against the low wall, forcing her to clutch at him so as to not topple backwards into the well. Her cry of protest was muffled by another kiss, and Rhanaer let his hands roam freely over her body. It seemed only fair to allow herself the same liberty, thought Lothíriel, feeling the curves of his muscles and tracing his spine all the way up to his nape, and then all the way down... She paused at the edge of his shirt, considering for a moment to lift it to explore what was underneath. Best not, though. As far as she could tell, she had already proceeded far beyond the wise and proper level of encouragement.

"Run away with me," she heard him whisper in her ear, once, twice. At first she ignored it, dismissing it as some romantic excess or other, but then she felt his lips brush against her neck and again came the whisper, a little more insistent now. "Run away with me."

She laughed, and tried to push his head away. "I don't think I am quite dressed for such an enterprise."

"Not right now. Tonight. We could go tonight."

A little bothered by his ragged breathing so close to her ear, she twisted out of his embrace and danced a step backwards. "It is like to rain again tonight. We should get wet."

"Would you let a little rain stop you, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth?" He closed the distance between them, taking her around the waist and letting his hands come to rest on her hips. "Come with me. I promise it will not rain, and if it does, I shall keep you warm and safe."

She turned her head to one side, and observed him, but could make nothing of his face: a marble mask of handsome calm. "Are you serious?"

"I am. Lothíriel, you and I, we have always liked and understood each other so well."

"Indeed we have, but that is no reason to do something so dramatic. We might miss breakfast."

"We could have a life away from all this." He cupped her chin and forced her to look him in the eyes. "We could be together."

At last she could no longer jest at his intensity. "Rhanaer," she said. "I will not run away with you."

He frowned, took her hand and held it in his. "Why not? Would you give up a chance to love? Do you not think you have the right to determine your own life?"

With some effort and some regret, Lothíriel extricated her hand. "I do. And if I were in love, it would be a different thing. But I am not."

"Are you sure you are not?" The question was accompanied by the roguish, cheerful smile she knew so well. "Just yesterday you almost begged me for a kiss."

Lothíriel rubbed her brow, wondering how to be straightforward without being unnecessarily boorish. "I am sure. Honestly, I just wanted to kiss you… It seemed fun."

"Are you saying that this was nothing but a game to you?"

Lothíriel bit her lip. It did sound quite careless when put like that, and it was not entirely true, but it would not do to further complicate the matter. "I am sorry. I did not intend to be confusing."

For a moment he stood and studied her. Then he sat down on the rim of the well and reached out to draw her in his arms again. "I think you are in love, but perhaps you are afraid. You need not fear, Lothíriel."

Annoyed that she should be taken for a coward, and not be trusted to know her own heart, Lothíriel pulled away, picked up the carelessly discarded book, closed it and folded her arms across it. "I am not afraid, even if that would be rather reasonable. You would be disgraced and have no income. And I should not know how to do anything at all."

"Ah, but I would take care of you. We could be free and live off the land. We could travel; go wherever you wish to go. In time your family would accept us."

Curiously optimistic, noted Lothíriel, although it might just be true. To be sure, her father was quite principled, but principled enough to cast her out and let her starve? Not likely. Such inflexibility she associated with her late uncle Denethor, not Prince Imrahil. But something else had begun to tug at the back of her mind, something King Éomer had said the night before, something so prosaic and commonplace that she would be very upset indeed if it were true. Surely Éomer could only be wrong – the man was so judgmental at times - but there was something that felt off about Rhanaer's sudden devotion and she knew she had to find out. She twisted her braid and bit her lip again. "You think my father would come to accept us?"

"He loves you well, doesn't he?" said Rhanaer.

"It might change his heart if I ran off with a soldier."

"Even so. You are his only daughter."

"It does not matter," said Lothíriel, somewhat forlorn, she hoped. "No one would see our marriage as real if father would not give you my dowry. And he could not welcome us in his house if our marriage was considered illegitimate, no matter how much he may love me now."

Rhanaer touched her cheek and looked down at her earnestly. "Well, what do you think he would do? For I think there is not much your father would not do to avoid dishonour brought on his house and family. If he has to settle your dowry on us for that, he will."

She shook her head. "He may want to, but it would not be in his power. My dowry is part of the lands and riches that are held in fiefdom by our family, and dependent on our fealty and obedience to the King. My obedience, especially." It was nonsense, of course, but it sounded like it could be true. The world was full of silly rules like that.

"What do you mean?" asked Rhanaer, his voice constricted, and Lothíriel breathed in deeply, now afraid of the outcome, yet still needing to be sure.

"If King Elessar does not stand witness to my marriage, the entire dowry will default to the crown."

The shock in Rhanaer's eyes told her all she needed to know. She glanced off to her right to hide the resignation that must have been plain on her face. _Curses_ , she thought to herself. And then: _let's hope Éomer never finds out._

"Surely there is some way around that..."

"I do not think so."

"You are a favourite of the queen."

"Yes, but the king has plans for my match, and he would be most upset to see them come to naught." As far as Lothíriel was aware, King Elessar had never given a moment's thought to potential matches for his Queen's maid, and she could not imagine her laconic king being very concerned about it either way.

"Oh."

"But you must have some savings!" she exclaimed, hoping that – what? He would expose himself further? He would prove to be romantic after all? She was not quite sure. "And I do not think I need much, truly. I rarely want second helpings, and I am sure my dresses would not go out of fashion for two seasons at least." She rested her cheek against his shirt.

He wrapped his arms around her almost perfunctorily, but she could feel his body angling away from her. "To be sure."

"And you are right about father! We could petition to him; I am sure that he would grant it if he believed me to be truly in love. We may lose my dowry, but I am sure he would help us live comfortably, if he can."

"To be sure. And your father has substantial funds of his own, doesn't he?"

"More than he knows what to do with."

That seemed to cheer him. "Indeed. He shall have to come up with a new dowry, to save his face and your family name." Then, perhaps realising that he had spoken more crudely than intended, he cupped her face again, murmured her name and lowered his mouth to hers.

She responded to his kiss, just because she wanted to, one last time, and it felt sad, and wistful, and unwise, and just stupider than it ever had before. Then she sighed, shook her head, and steeled herself: "You must think I am an utter fool."

"What?"

"You must think I am a fool," she repeated. "But you won't have me, or my dowry either."

"Come, Lothíriel, are you going to play coy with me now?"

"You are after my money. And you obviously think nothing of ruining me, and bringing shame to my father and family in the process. You're an idiot, by the way. If you knew me at all, you would know that I could never love another man so much that I would wittingly hurt my father. I cannot believe you fell for that."

Rhanaer's lips curled into a snarl and for a moment Lothíriel worried he might strike her. Then his features evened out and he sounded almost nonchalant. "You are quite the actress. Think hard before you reject me, Lothíriel. After your behaviour of the past months, do you think any man is like to offer for you for reasons other than your dowry?"

"What are you implying?"

"Nothing, just some friendly concern for your future. Not many men should want to wed a woman thus tainted without considerable compensation. It is not fair, but such is the way of the world."

"I am not tainted."

"Oh no? I bet there are those who would beg to differ. Those who know what you are, and just how little in their arrogance your family cares about your indecencies. You may find your reputation at court has suffered somewhat recently."

She forced herself to remain calm, although now she was ready to strike him. But that couldn't end well. "My reputation is my own concern. I think I shall go inside. Good day."

"Always walking and riding out without a chaperone," came his voice behind her. " Your little coquettish games with those barbarians from Rohan. Do you kiss them too… for fun?"

Lothíriel flushed and then realisation dawned on her beyond the shadow of a doubt. "It was you. You spread those stories about me."

"Oh come."

"That is how they had heard of my disagreement with Éomer – with the King of Rohan. I cannot believe I did not think of it before."

"You did those things yourself, Lothíriel. I did not make you do anything."

"Why would you do that?"

"So surprised there might be consequences to your actions..."

"No. That is not fair. You know that my infractions were nowhere so grave or spectacular as those stories would have it. I did everything with my cousin's full knowledge and permission. I was never banned from Edoras." _And certainly not for lewd behaviour,_ but it was too embarrassing to even say aloud.

"What can I say, people love a good scandal. It makes a much better story, don't you agree?"

"You are disgusting." She tried to stalk off but he caught up with her.

"Come, don't be that way. I am not such a scoundrel. After all, we were mere minutes from settling this in the old way, the way that is binding above the laws of men. It seems unreasonable that you should now throw it all back in my face just because I decided to do the honourable thing and propose to you first."

"Nothing about that proposal was honourable. And we were not close to 'settling this in the old way', as you call it. How much you make of what was only a kiss!"

"What does it matter if I should want your dowry? Every other man will. It is not as if you have much else to recommend you."

"You are not stating your case in any way that would make it more tempting to accept," said Lothíriel coldly.

He laughed, managing in spite of everything to look handsome and disarming, and Lothíriel forgave herself – just a little – for being so blind-sided. "Is it flattery you want? Know then that no warm-blooded man with eyes will consider bedding you a punishment. I certainly do not. Now come here. It will be easy. Pleasant, even. I know you, Lothíriel, and I know I can give you what you want, better than any lord."

"Unhand me, or I shall scream," said Lothíriel through gritted teeth as she tried to push him away. "You do not know me at all."

"Fine. If you are unwilling, we do not even need to do it." He did not let go of her arm, though. "After all, here you are, half-dressed, hiding in the bushes… For all intents and purposes, you have already lost whatever claim to virtue you still had."

Lothíriel gaped at his audacity. "You would tell a lie such as that? When I could as easily say that you forced yourself on me?"

"Will it matter in the eyes of the court, for your marital prospects, for your good name? And besides, who would believe you? You are, after all, only a woman and as we established have not exactly taken care to safeguard your reputation. So go on, Lothíriel. Scream."

For the first time in her life, she wished she would have listened to Éowyn and learned some – any kind of martial skill. It would be just so satisfactory and right to run the arrogant pig through with a blade of her own. Then again, Lothíriel had always considered herself more pragmatical than self-sufficient when it came to these matters.

"My reputation is a lot safer than your life is about to be if you go on like this." She had to think fast now. Her brothers would believe her, no doubt, but Rhanaer was right: her reputation would be ruined regardless and –a still more terrible prospect- she would look so very foolish. She shook herself loose, rearranged her features into an icy glare, and shifted her weight to stand on both feet, forcing him to take a step back. "If I scream, my brothers will hunt you down and rip you to pieces." He grinned but she saw him give a nervous twitch of his shoulder and knew she had to press her advantage. "You overplayed your hand; I am not my father and I do not care nearly as much about my reputation as I do about retribution. You say you know me. You would be dead before you could even tell the story to the fleas in your bedroll."

Rhanaer took another step back and cursed.

"There is only one possible way this can end now. You will leave Faramir's service. You will pack your things at once and be gone by morning."

"They will think me a coward!"

"Good. You are a coward. You can tell anyone who asks you wish to be closer to your kin in Lebennin now that the war is over."

"And what is to stop me from telling another tale?"

Lothíriel swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. "If I ever hear so much as a rumour of this, or any sort of amorous scandal involving me, in any corner of Middle-Earth, I will make sure you pay the price."

He looked pale now. "That is not fair! How would you know those rumours came from me? Just look at yourself."

That got her out of her anger – briefly. She looked down at her leggings, covered in grass-stains, her half unlaced shirt, and the frizzy curls peeping out of her now messy braid. "I suppose you had better hope I shall behave very well from now on," she said, tilting her chin, and with a final curse, Rhanaer turned around and walked off.

Only when he was well out of sight did Lothíriel sink to her knees and lean back against the rim of the well, heart still hammering in her chest. That was all too close to true tragedy! What if Rhanaer had seen no way out and decided he might as well claim her, or kill her outright. The deep dark of the well loomed behind her… how long would it take for her family to notice her missing? How long before they would have discovered her? She scolded and steadied herself, for nothing of the sort had happened. There had been no real danger. Drawing slow breaths and forcing herself to saunter rather than break into a run, she made her way back down to the courtyard. Just because a man proved to be a false-hearted seducer, this did not make him capable of rape or murder… and yet it was very vexing to be so very wrong about someone.

Ignoring everyone who attempted to catch her attention, Lothíriel went straight to her room and wrapped herself in the blankets laid out on the bed, hiding her body and face beneath layers of down blankets and pillows. Was it true that she should not expect a better offer? Her stomach contracted rather painfully. Surely she was a political prize, bringing to a potential union not only an indecently large dowry, but also the kinship of Imrahil, chief commander under king Elessar, captain of Gondor's fleet, of her brothers, all great warriors of considerable intelligence, and an ancestry – legendary or not – that inspired visions of grandeur even in the most commonsensical and sober-minded of the lords of Gondor. And of course, she was beautiful. Indeed, as most girls who came into their blossom rather late and had spent most of their adolescent years plain and unremarkable, Lothíriel was very conscious of her good looks.

Yet that was just a set of happy circumstance and privilege. It said nothing whatsoever about what made her suitable as a bride, and not just a pawn –albeit a rather ornate one- in her family's possession.

So Lothíriel did something she had never done before. She sat in front of the looking glass and began assessing herself. And not the way her body curved, not the way she could arrange her features into a pout so that she seemed – in her mind – irresistibly charming, but beyond that; beyond what she was to what she actually did. The way her brothers, even Amrothos, made daily decisions that affected them all, commanded armies, led men to victory, or death. And Lothíriel? She chose what gowns to wear – and she did not even do that particularly well.

Was she in fact the price a man would have to pay to get at all those assets that constituted her and yet were not her?

It was too horrifying, and not a very encouraging way to look at oneself at all. She could not let Rhanaer get to her like this. Indeed, she could not be seen in any sort of somber state at all, lest he call her bluff. So she dressed in one of her most resplendent gowns, went down to supper and acted as pert and brazen as she dared until she was absolutely sure that she had won the first round at least and Rhanaer was not going to show his face in the Hall tonight. Then she begged Faramir and Éowyn leave to retire, and returned to her chambers. As predicted, it was a stormy night, and her maid had closed the shutters against the wind and rain. Lothíriel took off her bracelets and carefully placed them in her jewelry box, very grateful she was not out in the storm, trading her jewels for fodder and firewood, or whatever runaways on the road would need. She undressed, but her mind was too preoccupied to even contemplate sleep, so she took out the poetry book again and tried to disappear into the words. Raissel came in some half an hour later.

"Where is Maeneth?" asked her friend.

"Still helping in the kitchens. I asked her to bring us a cup of water before midnight."

They made the bed together and shook out the blankets and pillows (Raissel was very meticulous about this, ever since a few nights back the girls had discovered a garden snake in their bed). It was strange to be just the two of them, but also strangely harmonious. Hethlil so readily took the lead, even if Lothíriel's rank should afford her that precedence, and Raissel was so accommodating of her oldest friend that it sometimes seemed she was hardly a person at all. Yet without Hethlil present, Lothíriel found there were many things they knew to do quite as well, if not quite as promptly, and it was easier to simply forget about dreary tasks that seemed less paramount to one's comfort. And there were some conversations that were just easier to have without Hethlil there.

"Do you think it is very bad to kiss someone without marrying them, Raissel?" asked Lothíriel, while untangling her braids.

"Why, no. So many people do it."

A little startled, and a little impressed by her friend's worldly response, Lothíriel turned and sighed: "Yet one is not supposed to."

"Well, one should not go around kissing people for the sport of it. But I do not think it is _very_ bad."

Lothíriel took a comb to her hair and asked, rather offhand: "So have you ever kissed anyone?"

Raissel paused, and flushed a little. "I – well, yes. I mean, it was not anything, really. There was a soldier, after the battle. I tended to him in the Houses of the Healing, before he rode to … with King Elessar. He was sweet, and so sad… He did not live, I think. I never saw him again."

"I am sorry," said Lothíriel, feeling her heart sink. "I cannot imagine how you must feel…"

"Oh, it is quite well. We hardly knew one another. It was just… it felt like something I could give him in that moment, and something that I needed also." Raissel bit her lip and pivoted in her seat. "Please don't tell, Lothíriel. I would not want anyone to know."

"Of course, I promise," said Lothíriel. "I doubt that would harm your reputation anyway, even with the worst of sticklers. It is quite romantic."

"I suppose," said Raissel, and sighed deeply. "Only, you know, a similar thing happened with another that evening…" Lothíriel's eyes widened at this. "He said I reminded him of his wife who had passed away. And then, the next day, just before the army rode out, I saw a man among the soldiers whom I had known as a little boy, when we had been friendly. He told me he had always loved me. I did not know what to do, so I kissed him too."

"Raissel!" said Lothíriel with a laugh.

"Oh Lothíriel, will you swear never to tell?"

"To be honest, I am rather impressed. Although indeed I would keep it quiet if I were you. That is all just a little too romantic."

"It was a strange time, and propriety seemed so futile. It felt like the end of days."

"I wonder if Hethlil kissed any soldiers too."

Raissel turned pensive. "No, I don't think Hethlil has ever kissed anyone. She says it is not worth the risk to one's reputation."

Lothíriel saw the sense in that, especially after today. But still. "And what say you?"

A small smile played on her friend's lips. "Sometimes it is worth the risk."

Lothíriel's respect for Raissel took another few leaps.

"And you, Lothíriel? Have you ever kissed anyone?"

"… I have."

"Was it worth it?"

Feeling a little wiser and a little older than before, Lothíriel sat on the low stool near the unlit hearth and twisted her legs at the ankles. "It is… always worth to _know_ , I think," she said eventually.

* * *

 _A/N The worst writer's block I have had so far._

 _I hope the length of this chapter makes up a little for the long wait. I think I am over the hump now; and it should be easier to write the next chapters, but I have learned not to make too many promises._

 _A heartfelt thank you to those who reviewed, favourited and followed during the past month. Every time I got an alert in my inbox, it helped push me back on track. Thanks also to the GoI ladies for general encouragement and support. :)_


	16. What a Man Should Be

**What a Man Should Be**

Over the next days, Lothíriel felt herself weighed down by a curious sort of melancholy. Time passed as before, but at times she found herself detached from her surroundings, falling silent during conversations, seeking solitude and skipping meals. Especially the latter worried her: she could not remember a time when she had ever lost her appetite before. Perhaps, she mused while aimlessly stirring her porridge, she had been a little bit in love after all.

But it was not like Lothíriel to simply accept heartsickness. There was correspondence to catch up on, and Raissel was still at Emyn Arnen, as well as Amrothos, despite a threatening missive from their father that had arrived two days ago summoning him back to the capital. Any distraction was welcome, and fortunately there were some of particular interest. Of late, Lothíriel had begun to suspect an attachment, or at least a mutual partiality, between Raissel and Éothain, which was as amusing as it was doomed. On the one hand, Raissel was the most likely to be able to marry for love: she had four elder sisters, all married with children, and her parents were easy on their youngest. On the other hand, she was still a lady of the court of Gondor with a famous name and an impeccable pedigree, and Éothain had no lands of his own. Still, Lothíriel liked both Éothain and Raissel very much, and could not help but promote it; whatever it was. She brought them together as much as she could and sang Raissel's praises to Éothain, to the extent that Lothíriel worried that Éothain must now suspect Lothíriel to be half in love with her friend herself. Raissel's partiality needed hardly any encouragement at all – the girl did not dissemble well as it was - and was easily harnessed for Lothíriel's own amusement. Born and raised in the City of Kings, Raissel was desperately attempting to impress by appearing more "Rohirric"; which apparently involved hanging out in the stables, riding astride, swimming in ponds and drinking ale. Lothíriel suspected that Éothain, like most men, was far more interested in pretty smiles and a kindly disposition than whether a woman could tell a mare from a gelding, but she never said a word. After all, Raissel was now more amenable than ever to partake in all her favourite activities and it was great to have her friend along for adventures. She even convinced Raissel to come climb trees with her and Amrothos. That endeavour, however, was short-lived. The weather had turned and when Raissel placed her hand on the first trunk, the soggy bark came away and scores of tiny spiders crawled out in all directions, causing Raissel to shriek and Lothíriel to laugh helplessly – so that Raissel would not speak to her for the rest of the morning. Amrothos kept up with her better: he was stronger than her, and just as agile, but Lothíriel was lighter and had excellent balance, so she could climb higher to where the branches were thin, and perform flips and cartwheels that would have made their father nauseous with fear. Amrothos, luckily the least protective of her brothers, just laughed at her antics.

Despite Raissel's silent treatment, that afternoon proved quite cathartic, and left Lothíriel determined to disassociate her happy memories of Ithilien from Rhanaer as much as she could. She practiced her tumbling daily, taught Suldis Sindarin voice commands, which indeed seemed very effective, and read risqué love poetry with Raissel, giggling all the while. There was, of course, also the cleanup of Emyn Arnen to worry about, but since Éowyn had fully recovered and there were no Gondorian rules and rituals to this to stump her, she had gladly taken back control of her own household. To Lothíriel's bemusement, Éowyn made Raissel and herself help even with the manual labour - scrubbing floors, dusting chairs and beating out tapestries - which they did without much skill but with copious enthusiasm.

Five days after King Elessar's party had left, Lothíriel was in the pantry helping with inventory when Raissel came in and dragged her out of the room, so that she felt her arm nearly pull out of its socket as she stumbled over her own feet into the corridor.

"I've just had a letter from Hethlil!" whispered Raissel excitedly, ignoring Lothíriel's cry of protest. "Would you believe it? She is engaged!"

The sore arm was instantly forgotten. Lothíriel's stomach plunged and she found she could barely breathe. "To Éomer?" she blurted without thinking.

Raissel looked at her strangely. "To Éomer? Why – no, of course not."

"Of course not! Raissel, you had all but picked out a dress to wear to their wedding."

"Don't be silly," said Raissel. "They were only friendly."

Lothíriel felt skeptical, remembering events quite differently. Did Raissel know something she did not? It was possible. Hethlil and Raissel had so much history together; they would always confide in one another before they would confide in her. Her curiosity over the matter at hand proved the greater, though. "So, if not Éomer, who is it?"

"Lord Awarthon."

"Lord Awarthon!" Lothíriel was completely taken aback. Hethlil had not responded at all to their teasing just a few days ago. "But he is fifty at least!"

"He is rich, too. And childless."

Erchirion thought well of the Lord of Amon Dîn; he was meek, perhaps, but also kind, and studious. Yet still, Hethlil was very eligible, and beautiful besides. She would not have lacked for choice, even if there was not much political gain in a match with her.

"I can scarce believe it," said Lothíriel. "Did she mention anything to you?"

"Not a word! Do you think he proposed while we were here? And she never told us?" asked Raissel. She waved the letter around as if to emphasise her vexation at this lack of prompt information. "They are to be married in a hundred days. Isn't that a terribly short engagement? It must be because he is so very old."

"Fifty is not that old," said Lothíriel. Prince Imrahil was more than ten years older, and she refused to think of her father as old. "And one hundred days is the agreed upon minimum. It is not improper."

"That means they shall be married in Nínui. And you shall likely still be away in Dol Amroth. Now we will never be the three of us again." Raissel's face had fallen, and the letter appeared in danger of being crumpled into a little ball.

It seemed, mused Lothíriel, that fantasising of matches and marriages was much more satisfying than their inevitable occurrence, especially if they happened to one's friend. It was always quite distressing to see Raissel upset, though. Lothíriel took the letter from her, folded it neatly and placed it in the pocket of her apron. "Of course we shall be the three of us again!" she said in a cheerful tone. "We will always be Queen Arwen's first maidens, won't we? And I suppose father will let me come over for the wedding; and we can shop and dress up together. We could wear those matching new ribbons we got during the Midsummer celebrations!"

"Oh, yes we should! Do you think your father would let you go so soon?"

"I am sure he would! And remember: Hethlil will be very rich, and she will have a very obedient husband." Now that the shock was wearing off, it did seem like a promising match. Even if Lothíriel could never – well, handsome men often proved just as disappointing in the marriage bed as plain ones, said Aunt Ivriniel, so perhaps it mattered very little – and yet handsome men at least were much easier to kiss, in Lothíriel's opinion, and what did her aunt know in the end? She grinned at Raissel and hooked her arm in hers "We shall be able to visit her all the time, no doubt."

Raissel gave her a smile in return and then sighed. "That is true. We should be happy for her."

"Yes," said Lothíriel, happy indeed.

oOo

She told Amrothos over supper.

"Well, that is a choice bit of gossip," he mused after she had finished. "Lord Awarthon and Hethlil of the Hills. It is hard to get one's head around."

"I thought you should tell Éomer. Because…" her voice trailed off, because she did not really know why at all.

"Éomer!" her brother exclaimed in affront. "What about me? You just told me that the handsomest, cleverest girl in the city is engaged to Awarthon, of all people. This is very distressing news."

Lothíriel regarded her brother with interested skepticism. "Did _you_ want to marry Hethlil?"

"Oh, marriage! Is that all you young ladies ever think about?"

"It is all there is to think about, if you truly liked her," said Lothíriel with her lips pursed.

"To be sure," said Amrothos. "I suppose occasionally I thought about that too."

"She spent all her time here with Éomer."

"I know, that just made her more attractive," said Amrothos. He flopped back in his seat with an exaggerated sigh. "I would prefer Éomer over me as well."

Lothíriel could not quite tell whether her brother was serious. "Well, I am sure your heart will recover in time," she said eventually.

"The heart never quite recovers," said Amrothos. "But the eyes have to move on."

He looked over to where Raissel was sitting. Lothíriel resisted the urge to upend her mug of ale over his head – barely.

oOo

It had been five days since the incident at the well, and Lothíriel had not seen Rhanaer. She was aching to inquire, but too afraid to do so, so instead she kept a close eye on the rangers' drills and practices, often in the company of Raissel, who was happy to tag along and ogle – no, attentively watch – the men. On occasion, Amrothos, Éomer and Faramir would spar as well, and the girls' interest would pique even higher. All three men excelled, but Éomer and Faramir especially were like a force of nature, and no match for poor Amrothos. Lothíriel did not often get the satisfaction of seeing her youngest brother defeated. Back home in Dol Amroth, her father was the only one who could, and he would do so occasionally, to keep his son in line. In recent years, however, Prince Imrahil was no longer so eager to show off on the training grounds as his offspring and seldom could be prevailed upon to participate in games of war. Lothíriel had always thought her father was the best warrior in Middle-Earth, a master of all weapons, as deadly on horseback as on the deck of a ship, and she still believed it. Yet her cousin was amazing too – his style and form as flawless as her father's – and Éomer, well, he was incredible. She might have expected him to wield his blade with grim and dour determination, but he often laughed as he fought, and he looked young, and barbaric, and beautiful.

Sometimes Éowyn would join their practice as well, to Lothíriel's secret delight. Lothíriel had already known that Éowyn was good with a bow, but that was nothing special. Many women in Gondor were; it was a common pastime and one of the few sports deemed suitable for young noble women. Hethlil was a fine shot – of course, she would not allow herself to be anything but competent– and Raissel had some skill, although less determination. Lothíriel had never learned. Her father had not encouraged her, and she really had no interest in it. Growing up, she had found archery contests to be one of the dullest events one could possibly be forced to attend: long hours of contenders staring into the distance in silent concentration, while the crowd grew restless, everyone complained of the wind, and elderly lords and ladies tried to engage her in petulant conversation, as they were unable to keep up with the competition due to their poor eyesight, and unreasonably offended because of it.

But swords! Swords were different - quick, noisy, brutal, and Éowyn was great with a sword, meaning that she both looked good wielding one and knew that it was, in the end, about killing one's opponent, so she did not waste time with needless flourishes. It was just how Lothíriel would have liked to look, had she ever learned, or indeed been allowed to try. Not that she had ever pressed the point. Prince Imrahil had been quite tyrannical about his sons' military education – this was Gondor, after all, and Gondor had been always at war – and Lothíriel had never envied her brothers their daily regime – the long carefully planned hours, the discipline and drills. She had hated all her own lessons by default, and they were few enough (after some years of endless arguments, Aunt Ivriniel considered enforcing a rigorous curriculum a waste of both their time and energies, so that Lothíriel knew but the bare minimum of history, lore and arithmetic). Yet it was not as if Lothíriel was incapable of dedicating herself to a task: learning how to walk the tightrope had taken countless bruises and falls, tiny and transitory moments of triumph, and then more bruises and falls. It had always seemed a delightful game, though.

The crux of the matter was that one could not play at swords. Swords were real. And whatever Lothíriel might say to rile up her father, she had no desire to ever be in a battle.

So she sat in the dais of the cavalry courtyard, deep in thought, when a ranger rode in, red-faced and with great urgency. Éowyn dropped her practice sword at once, causing the man she had been sparring with to cry in triumph as he finally managed to hit his lady. She did not heed him and rushed over to hear the report now delivered to Faramir. A small party of southerners, about two score, some mounted and some on foot, had been sighted in the woods. The men of Ithilien had approached with good will, mindful of the current diplomatic relations between their countries, but had quickly discerned this was not a friendly party. As soon as the Haradrim had sighted them, they had set upon them in full force.

"We were outnumbered and had to flee through the trees. Captain, they seemed to know their way around the woods. They are marching down the willow path, near the bridge."

"But that is but an hour from here!" said Éowyn, cool and impatient as ever. "How did they get so close to Emyn Arnen?"

"My lady," said the scout, inclining his head. "The only explanation I can offer is that it seems they knew exactly where to find us, and which paths see regular patrols."

The implications of his words caused a laden silence.

"Bring everyone in," commanded Faramir. "We shall not let them come to the gates. Let us ride out and meet them. Amrothos?"

Her brother nodded. "Gaeruilon, send word to the Rohirric encampment," he commanded his squire, a rather angular young lad from Linhir by the sea. "They must be on guard. Then join me in the armoury." The lad ran off, looking nervous. He was a sailor, even more so than Amrothos, and uncertain on land and horseback.

"We will join you too," said Éomer. He gave a signal to his guard, and Aldor rushed off to the stables.

"There is no need, Éomer," said Faramir.

"There is great need! No man should threaten another's home unchallenged."

"Of course. I mean, their numbers are few, and we are well trained for such skirmishes."

Éomer made a sweeping motion with his arms. "Never yet have I had the chance to ride to battle beside you, my brother. Do not deny me this opportunity." He smiled widely as he spoke, and a feverish light shone in his eyes. Lothíriel realised that unlike her father, unlike Faramir, Éomer loved battle, truly loved it, beyond duty and glory and pride in skill, to a sheer joy of killing. She observed it with interest rather than fear or awe. Amrothos was like that too; perhaps one of the more tangible reasons why the king and her brother liked each other so well. No wonder her father worried over him.

"It is tricky terrain for mounted knights," tried Faramir. "It may slow down those riders not used to it."

In response Éomer gave her cousin such a sharp look that Lothíriel was not surprised no one else put up an argument.

"Éowyn?" asked Faramir then.

His wife cast a meaningful glance in her brother's direction. "I shall be here when you return," she said.

"Very well," said Faramir. "We will leave as soon as we are able." And then, loudly. "Hurry, hurry. They will be upon the gate within the hour."

At his words, the world seemed to spring into action, including Raissel who rushed off in the direction of the kitchens, but Lothíriel remained seated in the stands, somewhat frozen and unsure. A westerly wind blew her hair in front of her face. Within seconds the courtyard was crawling with soldiers, yet from her vantage point she could barely make out their faces, and their voices seemed dull and distant. Overhead flew wheatears and wood thrushes; the last _helethvalen_ of the season buzzed around her skirts. The sun was low in the sky, its rays bright but cool on the limestone, and the air smelled like rain.

"Come, Lothíriel," called Raissel from below.

Lothíriel rubbed her neck, then sprinted down the steps, leaping from one row onto the next, to join the others in the courtyard.

Never before had Lothíriel witnessed men gearing up for battle in this way; the flurry of activity, the quick farewells and the careless raiding of the armoury. Her father's cavalry campaigns were carefully planned and controlled; even skirmishes never happened within a day's ride of Dol Amroth, her well hidden home on the cliffs. Raissel seemed to know exactly what to do and darted back and forth filling flasks, bestowing smiles and favours (although no kisses – so far), and redirecting the youngest of the squires and stable boys who tripped over their own feet and lost their way in their excitement. Lothíriel herself just stood there, feeling rather out of place, like she had found herself in the middle of a dance and suddenly could not remember the steps.

Not that that had ever happened to her before.

She went in search of Éowyn, determined to assist in any way she could, and found her cousin and his wife in a passionate embrace. Lothíriel looked away, blushing. It was all very well to be madly in love with one's spouse, but this type of kissing looked very frivolous when done when someone other than oneself, and especially if it was one's cousin.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and a familiar voice: "Lothi."

"I am all right," she said, almost without thinking.

"I know." The King of Rohan looked at her with his piercing eyes. "Amrothos was asking for you. He has been looking for a leathercrafter."

"What, he needs someone to polish his shoes before riding into battle?" said Lothíriel, annoyed.

"I believe he mentioned some broken strap of one of his vambraces. Still, this is Amrothos we are talking about."

He grinned at her, and she grinned back.

"I will go find him, then, and make sure he is usefully employed."

"Thank you," said Éomer.

She turned around, turned back, reached for his hand and then changed her mind, settling for brushing her palm lightly against his knuckles. "Be careful," she said lamely.

He nodded and said nothing, walked past her and went back about his business.

It seemed forever, and no time at all, before all were ready to ride out. Lothíriel kissed her brother goodbye, and then gave his horse a quick hug, while whispering _tirio chon_ in its ear (she was not sure whether Amrothos knew horses understood elvish, but figured it could not hurt to have a private word). Then they were gone, and for a moment Lothíriel felt terrible that she had said farewell to no one else, knowing that however the odds were stacked, they might not all return.

Éowyn and Raissel were silent, and rather grim, as they made their way back into the main hall. Plenty of men had been left behind to defend them, but Lothíriel noticed Éowyn arming herself with a knife and a short sword, before she turned around and began handing out wine and refreshments to the other women. After two sips of wine, Lothíriel felt the tension leaving her and replaced it with the blind faith that came with long practice: Amrothos was one of the best warriors that ever lived, Éomer and Faramir were even better, and surely not even fifty men could stand long against them. She sat with Raissel – who was bent over her embroidery, wan-faced and eyes shining - and Éowyn, and engaged them in a simple game of fortune-telling. It was one of Raissel's favourites, as it through a few simple sums predicted the likelihood of a match with a lord of your choosing, how many children you would have with him, what sex, what star they would be born under and so forth, depending on how many times one added up the numbers. Éowyn pronounced it "utterly vapid" but seemed amused anyway; or at least sufficiently distracted. (The game predicted six children for her and Faramir, four boys and two girls, to which Éowyn said: "Béma, spare me.") So an hour passed, or perhaps two, and then the horns blew: the call and answer of the Rangers of Ithilien and the King of the Mark.

They rushed back outside as the men came spilling through the gate, healthy and hale as far as Lothíriel could see, and then she saw her brother and she breathed a sigh of relief. Faramir was there too, dismounting and taking Éowyn into his arms, whispering quick words into her ear. Éomer rode in, covered in blood – none of it his, as Lothíriel later learned – and Éothain beside him, pale-faced and half-strapped to his horse. Éomer helped his Captain down, and Lothíriel saw him sink to his knees. Éowyn and Raissel immediately hurried towards them.

Last through the gate was Elric, son of Erkenbrand, riding double with another rider slumped against his chest, blonde hair covering some of his face, and blood and muck the rest.

"Aldor!" Lothíriel's voice came out as a breathless whisper. Then she fought her way through the crowd towards her friend, who lay bleeding on the ground.

oOo

The healing wing of Emyn Arnen was in the eastern part of the house, floors of cool stones in buff and umber, pristine white-washed walls. The windows were large, and the open shutters let in a sweet-scented breeze drifted in from the adjoining herbal gardens. All had been built according to Éowyn's explicit instructions and inspired by the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, although much smaller and in the colours of Emyn Arnen. It struck Lothíriel as strange that Éowyn should wish to recreate the circumstances of her confinement in her own home, but the Lady of Ithilien said that it was there that she had learned that healing was worth doing well, in peace and comfort, and not simply a matter of enduring potions and procedures. It was in that healing wing that they were gathered now, tending to the wounded, Éothain and Aldor chief among them. Aldor was drifting in and out of consciousness; Éothain seemed weak, but lucid, as Raissel carefully washed out his wound; a deep and jagged cut all along his arm. No others were as grievously harmed, save the two men lost at the field of battle, one Ithilien ranger, and one rider of Rohan, a good-natured man called Hereweald, whom had once shared his flask with Lothíriel and asked her for another song on the road to Rohan. She swallowed hard and tried to shake the sadness: if she should feel, truly feel, the loss of every man with whom she had once had conversation, she did not think she would stop crying until dawn. Instead she stared as Éowyn and Albarad, the Healer, tended to Aldor. She bent over to kiss his brow and briefly wove her fingers through his and squeezed his hand, the boy's earlier strange formality towards her quite forgotten.

"Men of the Black Serpent," said Faramir. Éomer, Amrothos and her cousin were also gathered around Aldor's bed, looking grim. "They all converged on Éomer as soon as they saw his banner. Vengeance, perhaps, for their king who was slain."

Amrothos shrugged. "We tried to capture one for questioning, but he slit his own throat before we could come near."

"They came to die. Their purpose was not to take Emyn Arnen; they had no hope of defeating us. They set on us with a blind ferocity." Faramir spoke in wonder.

"They were brave," said Éomer.

"They were mad," said Amrothos. "I saw one force his sword through his dying comrade's gut to get at the man behind him." Then he seemed to suddenly realise his sister was standing just beside him, and he turned to her and touched her cheek. "Loth, don't you have something to do elsewhere? These are no conversations for you."

Mortified to be thus addressed in this company, Lothíriel pushed her brother's hand away. "Amrothos, I am not a child. You cannot dismiss me."

"I'm still your older brother," said Amrothos, spinning her around and giving her a little shove in the direction of the door. "Just wait outside, or better yet go and inform the cook to send up some broth for these men."

"Aelel can do that," said Éowyn, nodding to the serving girl. "Lothíriel, come here and put pressure on the wound. Are your hands clean?" Lothíriel nodded and obeyed, trembling a little as she saw Aldor's face contort in pain, and Éowyn turned to Amrothos. "You are doing her and her future husband a great disservice shielding her so. What kind of world do you think she will live in?"

Amrothos looked annoyed, then uncomfortable. "A peaceful one, I hope. It is how my father wants it."

"Father also wants me to be useful," said Lothíriel. "He cannot have it both ways. Besides, he entrusted me to Faramir's responsibility, not yours, so he alone can send me away."

She cast her cousin an imploring look.

Faramir briefly shut his eyes, and Lothíriel felt a stab of guilt for putting him on the spot. She knew he would side with Éowyn – how could he do otherwise? - but Imrahil was still his uncle, and a much revered one at that. "Stay, little cousin. Although if you are plagued by bad dreams, I hope you will wake my wife and not me."

"You may both rest easy; all my dreams are good." Then she bent back over Aldor and placed a cool hand on his brow, maintaining equal pressure on the wound all the while.

The others resumed their conversation, although Amrothos' contributions were more hesitant and less colourful than before.

"What was their purpose, do you think?" asked Éowyn, when the men finished detailing the battle. "If not to take Emyn Arnen, what then?"

"I cannot tell you," said Faramir. "But as I said, they came full prepared to die."

"Do you think they heard of Éomer's presence?" worried Éowyn. "If the Black Serpent wants vengeance…"

"It was not just the Black Serpent, I'm afraid," said Faramir grimly. He pulled a blood-streaked banner from his leather pouch and held it in front of his wife. The banner showed a crumbling tower on a yellow field.

"The Blue Tower!" exclaimed Éowyn. "Lord Dume! He was a guest in our house."

"That is not Lord Dume's sigil," intervened Lothíriel. All eyes turned to her and she felt herself flush under such scrutiny. "It's the Struck Tower from one of the southern tribes."

"Lothíriel, are you sure?" said Faramir with some urgency.

"Quite sure," said Lothíriel, her heart pounding. Her mind's eye knew it to be true – but she also desperately wanted it to be so. If not, and Dume had betrayed them, then what had been her role in that? And Éomer knew the whole story – how would he judge her – if this be the cost of her rudeness. "You see the crack along here? And the stones are streaked with purple rather than pure indigo. It is very similar, of course, but that is deliberate."

"How do you know this?" demanded Éomer.

"I saw it in one of father's books. I had … occasion to study the pictures rather intently a few days ago."

Her brother snorted behind her.

"I cannot quite remember the story. There was something about a rift between two lines of the same house… and a revolt; the so-and-so rebellion?"

"The blood brother rebellion. Of course. I remember now," said Faramir. "Fetch that book for me, cousin. I need to verify this for myself."

Lothíriel looked to Éowyn, unwilling to leave Aldor and the task assigned to her. "Go," commanded Éowyn. "The blood has all but clotted now; I should clean and bind the wound."

Lothíriel got up and washed her hands, feeling a little light-headed as the water turned orange, but determined not to show it. Then she rushed to her room and came back bearing _A Political History of Near-Harad._ It had still been lying on her nightstand, as a painful echo of her wrongdoing and punishment.

"You are right, Loth," said Amrothos, studying the pages. "What an auspicious coincidence that you should be such a keen reader."

Lothíriel decided to ignore him.

"Can we truly trust what is in a book?" asked Éomer dubiously.

"It is a very recent and well-received history," said Faramir. "I am sure it is correct."

"Unfortunately, though, it still does not help us much," said Amrothos. "There are too many motives, too many variables. The lords of the Blue Tower may have meant to confuse us: a quick and easy change to their usual coat of arms to conceal their true identity, or they may have been a southern tribe hoping to destroy the alliance and trusting we would not catch the difference."

"A bluff within a bluff," said Faramir. "It is possible."

"What coward would refuse to fight beneath his own banner?" said Éowyn.

"They have no hope of beating us in the field," said Amrothos curtly. "They cannot be strong, so they have to be smart. Remember that we won the war by sneaking a Halfling into Mordor."

"Hmpf," said Éomer, as if to say that was a different thing entirely, which it was.

"The King should hear of this," said Faramir. "And soon."

"I will ride out at first light," said Amrothos. "Father has been wanting me back in Pelargir for some days; I can give him the message and then board a ship at the Harlond. I should not take long to prepare for departure."

Faramir nodded. "The hour is late. Go and get some sleep while you can."

Lothíriel watched her brother go with sad eyes.

"You should also retire. Or at least get out," said Éowyn then, gesturing emphatically to Faramir and Éomer. "There is nothing you can do for Éothain and Aldor now, but they need peace, and quiet."

They obeyed and left the healing wing, but not Elric, who did not budge from his son's bedside. Éowyn did not chastise him, but turned to her maid and instructed her to make up an extra bed. Of course, mused Lothíriel, she had a son of her own. Would she be parted from Elboron's side if he were hurt? Not even if Gondor itself was sinking to the bottom of the sea, she guessed. She looked on as the Healer and Éowyn continued cleaning and binding Aldor's wounds, and occasionally let herself be sent on errands to retrieve certain herbs, linen, and even a bedpan. Lothíriel picked the rosemary and sage with care, grateful Queen Arwen had at least remedied her lack of knowledge on that score.

At last, Aldor was declared out of immediate danger. Meanwhile, Éothain was given something for the pain, and Raissel watched over him as he drifted off to sleep.

"Did you kiss him?" asked Lothíriel, when they stepped out of the room together to fetch clean cloth and water.

"Lothíriel!" A pretty blush appeared on Raissel's cheeks. Then she murmured: "I should never have told you."

"So you did kiss him."

"I did not!" said Raissel. "You should not tease me so."

In apology, or amusement, or perhaps just sheer relief at the fact that her friends looked to survive, Lothíriel swung her arms around the girl and pressed a kiss to the side of her head. "If he will not, then I will. You were just splendid, Raissel."

"Come," said Raissel, somewhat mollified. "There is more work to do."

oOo

Éomer had a problem. In the midst of battle, one of the Southrons had beaten down one of his guards and charged at him with a long and heavy spear. He had been engaged in combat with another, and had turned just in time to stop the assault with his shield, but the impact had been brutal and twisted his shoulder in a painful way, so that he could feel the muscles and tendons in his arm almost tear apart. The rush of battle and then his worry for the wounded had made him temporarily forget his injury, but in his room he found he could barely move his left arm, which meant he could also not undo the straps of his plate and braces. With both Éothain and Aldor wounded, he had no men around to attend him, and after a few hopeless minutes, found himself quite stuck. With a sigh, he had walked to Éowyn's chambers for aid, only to learn she must be still in the healing wing, and that Faramir had disappeared somewhere else entirely – knowing his brother-in-law, it was probably his private library. Anyway, Éowyn had said there was not much more to be done for Aldor and Éothain at the moment, which meant she would probably soon retire herself. She would fuss and snap at him, but she was also capable and discreet, and none would be the wiser. And then he could finally get some rest. He paced the room, wondering how long his sister would be, then sat and despite his discomfort decided to close his eyes, just for a moment.

He was woken by the soft opening click of the door. Automatically he reached for the nearest weapon, but with a groan found out that he could now barely move at all. The slight figure in the opening of the door started and let out a little gasp.

"Éomer? Why are you here?" Lothíriel looked a little tired and unkempt, wisps of black curls plastered to her forehead, but her eyes were bright in the moonlight.

"I was waiting for my sister."

"Were you going to challenge her to a duel?"

"What?" he asked, uncomprehending.

"You are still in your armour."

"I know," he said. Another groan escaped his lips. "That is why I need Éowyn."

Lothíriel sidled into the room and closed the door behind her. "You cannot undress yourself?"

"Of course I can," he bit. "But I seem to have sprained my arm in the battle and I could not reach around and unbuckle the straps. Normally, Aldor would help me, but well…"

"I sympathise. I think they purposefully design lady's gowns so that it is hard to dress and undress without assistance. It is really quite perverted when you think about it."

"Lothi…"

"Should I go and fetch your sister for you? She is still with Aldor, but I am sure she can be spared a moment."

"No. No, she should be with the boy."

"I can send for one of your men, if you wish."

"No," he said rather sharply. He had survived the three great battles of the War of the Ring unscathed. Éomer Éadig, they called him. And now he had gotten himself injured in an insignificant skirmish against no more than two score southerners. He did not want to shake his men's faith. He did not want the fuss. Besides, he had this vague hope that as long as they believed him to be invulnerable, they would let him do whatever he wished. "I can wait."

She stared at him, eyebrow cocked as if she saw right through him, and then said: "Very well. Just let me take this wrap to your sister and I can help you."

"There is no need."

"Please, my lord. Éomer. You look pained and uncomfortable, and I do think I know how to unbuckle armour."

"I can wait until my sister is done."

"You will be waiting a long time," said Lothíriel, her tone a little clipped now. "And if you were my brother, I would call you very foolish for not letting someone tend to you before." It was so exactly what Éowyn would say that Éomer had to wonder if sisters were indeed the same the world over. Meanwhile, the princess made for the door, and then looked over her shoulder. "I just need a few moments. I shall be right back."

It was at least half an hour before she returned, just when Éomer had concluded with some relief that she had apparently forgotten him. "Can you walk?" she asked, holding the door open for him.

"Of course I can walk," he growled.

"Then come. I've had hot water brought to the guest chamber down the hall."

"What?" asked Éomer, uncomfortable. "Can you not quickly help me here?"

"Éomer, you are absolutely vile." He started and scowled at her. Had he not done his very best to scrub clean what he could? He had not wanted to get his armor wet. "Your sister will have both our hides if we get that blood and grime anywhere near her clean bedding." She sniffed, turned up her nose, and her expression was so haughty that Éomer felt his anger dissipating in favour of amusement. She had seldom appeared less like a Gondorian lady, and there she was, with those tangled curls and her sullied apron, standing in the doorway, all high and mighty, accusing _him_ of uncleanliness.

"Very well," he said at last, and followed her out through the corridor. She led him down past Éowyn and Faramir's chambers, and then around a corner. He paused in the doorway in amazement. The guest room, one of the smaller ones meant for intimate family, was softly lit in candlelight, and a fire burned in the hearth. A few basins with steaming hot water stood on a nearby table, and there was soap and clean linen; a jug of ale; and a bowl of bread, next to a plate with fresh and smoked cheeses.

She misread his expression as he frowned at the refreshments. "I am sorry. It was the best I could come up with on such short notice. I thought you probably had not yet a chance to eat."

During the war, and especially at Cormallen, Aragorn and Éomer had frequently poked fun at Imrahil for his luxury accommodations. They had made grateful use of them, though. As soon as they had discovered the comforts his sister Ivriniel and his daughter-in-law Galweth provided for the Prince of Dol Amroth, all meetings, counsels and deliberations were henceforth – by complete chance of course - held in his tent. Fortunately, Imrahil was a gracious and generous host. Éomer had not failed to note over the past weeks how Lothíriel tried to ensure her father was surrounded by his accustomed luxuries in Emyn Arnen too. Lothíriel probably indeed thought the absence of delicacies, floral garlands and a harp player in the room a considerable failing on her part.

"It will do very well," was all he said. She poured him a mug of ale, and he showed her the buckle that had been his undoing. She undid the fastening with ease, her fingers light against his side, and then the one below.

"Éothain, and Aldor. Are they well?" asked Éomer.

"As well as can be expected, my lord." Her hands betrayed a tremor, and he noted she had inadvertently fallen back into the comfort of formalities. "Éothain seems to be quite hale; he has simply lost a lot of blood. The Healer says he will be quite his old self again in a week or less. Aldor's wounds worry the others more, I can tell, but everyone seems to think he will pull through just fine. His father is still by his side."

Éomer sighed. "I am surprised Elric has not yet called me to account."

"You are their king. They are proud to defend you."

"I know." It did not make it easier. He thought of Hereweald, who had been with him on the Pelennor Fields, the first of his riders to die for him since they had called him king at Meduseld, and surely not the last.

"There," said Lothíriel, unclasping the last buckle on his left. "Let me help you with the rest." He hesitated. He really should stop her now, it was too intimate, terribly wrong and yet a soothing little voice in his head whispered: _she tended to Aldor too, didn't she? It's only courtesy. It's only Lothíriel._ Besides, he was not quite sure if she would let him stop her. Lothíriel could be quite imperious when she was determined. So he did not intervene when she proceeded to pry open the rest of the straps and buckles, and slowly removed his faulds. She chatted at him, lightly and comfortably, without expecting much response, which suited him just fine.

"Stars, that is heavy," said Lothíriel, as she nearly staggered under the weight of his body armour. "How do you even move?"

Éomer could not help being a little smug. "It does not feel as heavy if you are wearing it, but I know your father and brothers prefer a different style."

"It is because of the sea," said Lothíriel with a smile. "Heavy armour would pull a man down as soon as he lost the deck. My father and brothers can swim a mile in their mail."

With some effort, she arranged his rerebrace and vambrace under her arm, and then took some lathered linen with her other hand.

"Don't use that!" he said brusquely, fearing she intended to give his armour a good scrub.

"Do you take me for a fool?" she snapped back, handing the linen to him and then carefully arranging his armour on a stand that seemed placed there for precisely this purpose. Then she undid her apron, washed her hands and arms, rolling up her sleeves without much regard for propriety, and handed him more of the lathered linen so he could clean himself as best as possible. Imrahil's daughter, playing the maid and squiring for him! It would be amusing if it were not so wholly inappropriate, and yet… well, she did it so well and with such confidence that it was easy to forget how unusual this work must be for her. She turned to him and then stared at his chest with such intent that he found himself scratching his head, a little self-conscious.

"You should take off your shirt," said Lothíriel.

Éomer almost doubled back. "What?"

"To have a look at your arm," said Lothíriel. "We have to try and make sure your injury is not serious."

"It is not serious."

Lothíriel pursed her lips. "I need to make sure."

"And how will you judge? You had barely seen blood before today."

Lothíriel huffed. "Would you like me to get the Healer? Or someone else? Because I will."

"Lothi, you have done enough," said Éomer. "I am fine. You can leave me now."

"If you dismiss me, I will be forced to tell you were hurt in the battle."

"Oh ho! How so?"

"You are an important ally. What if you ignored an injury that could weaken you down the road? Indeed, it would be almost treasonous for me not to tell." The girl folded her arms across her chest, and a wicked smile spread across her face. "Besides, as your friend, how could I do otherwise? Just a peek, I promise."

Éomer was beginning to realise that being friends with Lothíriel was a very dangerous thing indeed. "You are a tyrant."

"Indeed," she said. "It is probably a good thing I am not a king."

"Hm," said Éomer.

Lothíriel gave a tug at his shirt. "I would promise not to look," she said, still with that same wicked smile. "But that would quite defeat the purpose."

He did not want to encourage this – obviously not – but who did that green innocent vixen think she was to tease him so? So he rose, and unbuttoned his shirt while staring straight into her eyes, and to his satisfaction she flushed to the very roots of her hair. She did not look away, though.

"Very well, Lothi. Have a look, if you insist."

She walked over to the basin, wrung out one of the linen pieces, and approached him, gathered his hair to one side and then gently wiped the remaining dirt off his injured arm. He exhaled at her touch, not too audibly, he hoped. When he closed his eyes, he saw Imrahil brandishing a great-sword at him and demanding he marry his daughter _right now,_ while Éowyn stood by and called him a hypocrite.

"There is not much to see, although I suppose light swelling or bruising would not be visible in candlelight," came Lothíriel's voice beside him. "Can you move it?"

"Yes," he said, testing both his arms. "It feels quite well."

"Is that a kingly warrior 'quite well'?" asked Lothíriel. "Or have you truly managed to heal yourself within the past five minutes?"

"It is nothing. There is some pain," he added. "The arm, mostly, but it seems to have spread to my back and shoulders too."

"That is probably because you were attempting to sleep in your armour instead of letting anyone treat you."

"It is nothing," he said again, rolling his shoulders to alleviate some of the soreness.

"Do you trust me?" she asked all of a sudden.

A soul-searching question. "What are you planning?"

"I think I can perhaps bring you some relief…" she said hesitantly and at his wide eyes she quickly continued. "I will not touch the sprain. I do not see any swelling, but I am no healer and I do not want to inadvertently cause you further injury. But," she said, and her fingertips fluttered against his back, "I can do something about the rest and spare you a very uncomfortable night, and some headaches too."

He was about to stop her – Imrahil's face contorted in fury was flashing in front of his mind's eye again and what cared he for a little discomfort – but then he felt her beginning to apply pressure to his back, and it felt so very pleasant that any thoughts of Imrahil and his sister faded. Her hands were warm and soft, as they slid up his back and down again, relieving the tensions in his muscles. Whenever she found a particularly sore spot, she increased the pressure until he could feel the pain flow out of him.

"Where did you learn to do that?" Every rider on the road knew to rub their arms and legs to prevent them from feeling stiff and sore after days of riding and sleeping on the ground in winter, but this was something else entirely, almost a healing art. And he had never met anyone, and especially not a woman, who was so very, very good at it.

"It was players of Corsair and Harad who first introduced the practice to Dol Amroth, many years ago. When I was little, I wanted to be able to do everything they could do. I got better over the years. After all, I have three brothers who love to be fussed over," said Lothíriel.

"You spoil them. By rights they should be pampering and fussing over you."

She stood so close that he thought he could feel her lips draw into a smile. "Have you _met_ my brothers?" she said. He could feel her body brush against his as she moved to focus on his other side and continued her gentle ministrations. The pain retreated, until it was just a dull burn in his arm, but she did not yet stop, and soothing turned to pure pleasure and then something more still. He wanted to look at her, wondered how she would react if he grabbed her and pulled her into his lap – injury be damned – and…

"Just as an aside," she said, letting her hands come to rest on his shoulders, "this is definitely something my father would qualify as overly familiar and unseemly behaviour."

Her voice was low and husky, and Béma help him he had not been with a woman for almost two years. For the first time, he questioned the wisdom of that decision. For the first time, he wondered if it was quite ethical to subject a virgin bride to this pent-up frustration. He breathed in her scent; sweat, and blood, and the perfume she wore in her hair: something like olives, and citrus and chestnuts in fall. She was perfectly tempting, and perfectly stupid, and perfectly out of reach, but he could not – would not pretend he was completely unaffected. "As he should."

She let out a short laugh, and suddenly her hands were gone and she sat down on the stool across from him. Her eyes were full of danger and fun. "Fret not, my lord. I will add it to my list of matters he should never hear about."

Éomer grimaced. He had a similar list. Curiously, almost all entries involved Lothíriel in some way or other.

"How do you feel?" she asked softly.

For a moment, Éomer could not find the words. "Yes, better," he said at last.

"Your chambers are readied for you," said Lothíriel. "And I asked the servants earlier to find someone who can deal with your armour; they should be here shortly. Is that acceptable, my lord?" she added with a teasing smile.

Éomer could only nod.

"Very well. You have my leave to go."

He got to his feet and as he passed her by he quickly and gently gave a tug to her braid. "Shameless hussy," he murmured, while Lothi bent over in silent laughter behind him.

Then he went.

oOo

Lothíriel knocked at her brother's door and at his "enter" she stepped into the room carrying a tray with two goblets of wine.

You are a very dutiful sister, Lothíriel," said Amrothos, stretched out on his bed.

"Of course," said Lothíriel, placing one of the goblets on his bedside table.

"Are you drinking with me?" he said, gesturing at the other goblet.

"No," said Lothíriel. "It is for someone else."

"Someone else? I thought only I got this special treatment."

"It's for Éomer."

"Oh ho. Éomer?"

"His sister is still in the healing wing," said Lothíriel, as if that explained anything.

"Of course."

"The servants have been very busy, too."

"Very thoughtful, little sister. Almost an excessive amount of consideration," said Amrothos, getting up and reaching for the goblet. "I suppose I can comfort myself that at least I was first on the list, and still rank above him in your affections."

"There are advantages to being last on my list," blurted Lothíriel.

This time she had truly taken him by surprise. His eyebrows flew up and then he exhaled slowly. "Yes. I suppose there are. You best be back here in ten minutes, or I will have to come and get you."

"Is that all it takes?" asked Lothíriel, still a little high from her latest experiment with coquetry.

"Five minutes, Lothíriel. Be back here in five minutes."

oOo

She was back in seven. Amrothos sat on his bed, fully dressed, polishing his blade with a determined expression.

"Would you truly have stormed in there?" asked Lothíriel, leaning against one of the posts of his four-poster bed.

"Perhaps," said Amrothos while putting away his sword. "Although I do have reasons to believe I can trust Éomer with your virtue."

"Hm," said Lothíriel after an inexplicable pang of disappointment.

"Speaking of which…" He looked up at her, his eyes intent. "Some days ago one of the rangers, a man called Rhanaer, resigned from the company to return to his father's home in Lebennin. A curious coincidence, since Faramir was just about to reassign him. Would you happen to know more about this?"

"Hm," was all she said again. Then she sat down next to her brother, wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder.

"Loth. Should I go and dispose of him?" He untangled her grip and searched her face. "I will, if you ask it of me."

"There is no need," said Lothíriel, swallowing hard. "Actually, I think this means I won."

He grinned and kissed her brow. "Good. I despise Lebennin."

* * *

 _A/N If you thought last chapter was long… Fortunately this was (comparatively) a breeze to write!_

 _Lialathuveril rightly pointed out to me that the Rohirrim wore chainmail instead of platemail according to canon; but since Tolkien was quite undetermined about most of the clothes and material objects in the legendarium, and my aesthetics in general lean more towards (late) Renaissance and even later, I took a liberty there._

 _My thanks also to Eldhoron for his help with the Sindarin translation: tirio chon means "watch over him"._

 _Helen – thank you and welcome! Glad you liked the chapter! I love both Tolkien and Austen – even if they are so different and seem almost incompatible. I started reading Eomer and Lothiriel romances in late 2015, and encountered a lot of Austen-esque plot elements and dynamics, which made me wonder if Jane Austen would have been into fanfiction if she had been a contemporary of ours. That's how this got started. Hethlil's motivations will be clear by the end, I promise._

 _PoemstheEarth – I'm so glad I made you happy – and your review did the same for me :D All writers love novel-reviews, trust me. ;-) And it's great to hear Lothiriel and Rhanaer's confrontation worked so well for you! That's pretty much exactly what I hoped to achieve, although how lasting an impact this occasion has on Lothi we have yet to find out. ;-) The new lines are in the conversation between Hethlil, Raissel and Lothiriel – when Hethlil tells Lothiriel about the gossip that had been going around the court of Minas Tirith. It is a very small change; she refers explicitly to Lothi's time in Rohan now. As for AO3, yeah, I understand and I know some readers prefer it… I hoped to upload this to AO3 as a complete novel, because I think it will give a very different reading experience that way, and I am interested in the comparison. I hope you are not too annoyed; it will be there in the end._

 _Guest – thank you so much; that is lovely to hear! Yes, Lothi is definitely changing and growing. Hurrah, I am so glad the scene worked at least for some readers._

 _All my other readers & reviewers: thank you, as always, for being around and sharing this with me. :-)_


	17. Faultless in Spite of All Her Faults

**Faultless in Spite of All Her Faults**

"Are you really not sad that you cannot go? I would be ever so sorry," said Raissel, while bent over her embroidery. She was working on a blanket for Queen Arwen's unborn babe; a labour she took very seriously. Lothíriel had been looking over to the intricate flowers and gulls with some admiration. "It is such a pity that you did not get an invitation."

"I am not in the least sorry." Lothíriel inflected her voice just so, demure and proper, with a decided edge of prissiness. "I could never have accepted. I am glad no one presumed to take the liberty."

"But why ever not?"

"It would be improper, of course."

"Why?"

"Well, it is a bit of a country affair, isn't it? And I'm a princess of Gondor." Lothíriel's hand slipped on her quill, and a small blot of ink obscured her last few words. Drat. She began turning it into a tiny swan-ship to make it look deliberate, adding sails and shaping the blot into a prow, quill scratching on the parchment.

"Éowyn is going, and she is a princess too."

"Éowyn is married and will be there with her husband, and they are _her_ people. It is entirely different." She puffed her cheeks. "And besides, I would not go on the principle. Just the idea that a woman can only attend when escorted by a man – it is outrageously old-fashioned."

"Lothíriel, that's not like you," said Raissel, a delicate frown appearing between her perfectly almond-shaped eyes.

Lothíriel sat back and rested her quill in the inkbottle. The letter to Alphros in honour of his name day was finished. It had now been seventeen months since she had last seen her nephew. She wondered if he was still fascinated with pirates (to the discomfort of his mother). She wondered if he would still remember her. He had been only two years old when she had last seen him. "It sounds like it will be a very rowdy affair. I am certain my father would have a fit if he would learn I was there."

"But do you then think I should not go?" Raissel's voice was thin, as if bracing herself for disappointment.

Lothíriel fiddled with the corners of her parchment. "No – of course not - you should go and enjoy yourself!"

"But if you think your father would so disapprove, it must be improper for me to go as well."

Lothíriel bit her lip, entirely unsure what her father would have to say about the matter. Yes, it did sound like the celebration could hardly be proper, but her father was also a strong proponent for respect for other peoples' traditions, especially those of the Rohirrim. "Your reputation is spotless, and I do not think attending would be seen as improper per se. No one will mind you," she added, a little unkindly. In truth, Lothíriel was absolutely miserable to miss out on such a singular pleasure, and it was hard to keep up a front. "I just think I should take extra care, that is all."

"Oh, but Lothíriel, to be all alone here while everyone is out there celebrating. I could not bear it."

"Dearest, you are acting as if everyone is riding off to war again," said Lothíriel impatiently. "It is just one night, and I will be perfectly comfortable at home. And besides, I have been so busy that I look forward to a night of peace and quiet. Mind you, I still have _The Mysteries of Nan Garan_ to finish before father comes for me. Last night Gestedis reached the old abandoned farmstead. Oh, I could not put it down, it was so thrilling."

That at last got Raissel to change the subject. "Oh yes, isn't it perfectly scandalous? Just wait till you get to the part with the Haradric mummer! Look, I blush just remembering it!"

 _The Mysteries of Nan Garan_ had been the obsession of the ladies of the court ever since it had first surfaced some six months ago. It was a romance of sorts, but told in simple prose rather than verse. The author had managed to remain anonymous thus far, but there were rumours abound as to who was responsible for the titillating tale of the orphaned maiden. There were only a few known copies in the city, and they were passed from hand to hand, under tables, hidden between cloth, well away from libraries and public places where fathers and husbands might stumble upon them. Raissel had been trying to get Lothíriel to read it for a long time, and Lothíriel had to admit it was as excellent as promised. Of course, not quite as thrilling as a night of drinking and dancing in the woods with the riders of Rohan, but one had to make do.

"You are very good, Lothíriel," said Raissel now. "I am sure I would have been miserable."

"Well, it is different for you," returned Lothíriel promptly. "You already know what happens to Gestedis and the Haradric mummer."

oOo

Éomer had listened to the conversation with some amusement. As Raissel hurried past him in the corridor, he could not resist studying Lothíriel through the crack in the door, her quill resting on her lips as she stared out of the window. If he had heard her speak like this a year ago, he would surely have been offended. Now he knew without a doubt that she was twisting the truth; that no propriety or principle would have prevented Lothíriel from joining the festivities and exploring the newness of it all. In fact _endwist_ was just the sort of thing to excite great curiosity in the little imp. He guessed she was either miserable, or furious.

It was, of course, still perverse of her to speak so just to hide her feelings from Raissel.

He strode on towards his own chambers to bathe in preparation of the night of celebration Lothíriel had just so firmly dismissed as "a country affair". His time at Emyn Arnen was almost at an end – he hoped to be back in the Riddermark before the snows would start in earnest – but Éowyn had been so excited at the prospect that they might be able to celebrate _endwist_ together that he had extended his stay by another week. It felt strange. Never yet had he been abroad at this time, nor spent this honoured night away from the land of his fathers.

They had attempted to explain the custom to Lothíriel and Raissel some days before.

"A whole night outdoors, in this season!" had Lothíriel exclaimed. "What is this, some proud northern feat of endurance? Is that why women are not allowed to attend?"

Faramir had laughed at that, and Éomer had felt uncomfortable. In recent years, he had been forced to regard many of the traditions and lore of the Riddermark through the lens of the people of Gondor, and sometimes it wearied him. He had learned much, that was true enough, of elves, and dwarves, and strange trees, but there were some things that should not be so carelessly questioned and scrutinised. Besides, the Stonelanders had plenty of idiotic traditions of their own, in his opinion, but somehow they seemed to laugh and shrug off any criticism, completely comfortable in their frivolities.

"It is an ancient tradition from the days before Eorl rode south, and signals the very end of the harvest; the last feast before midwinter," he had began to explain. "In the north, whence our people came, it would be the last night that our herds would be kept in pasture; that is why we spend the whole night out of doors as well."

"And women can attend," added Éowyn. "But only when expressly invited and under the protection of a man. It is mostly a formality. When I was old enough, my cousin, Théodred, was always happy to act as my guardian for the night."

"Could your brother not take you?" asked Raissel.

"No," Éowyn laughed. "Brothers, fathers, uncles, no. That is not the way."

"Why not? Surely a woman's best guardian is, well, her guardian. Although I do not see why she needs one at all. I have attended plenty of feasts without protection," said Lothíriel.

"Is that so?" asked Faramir of his cousin while stirring his tea in a nonchalant manner. "In my memory, you officially came out this summer only, and since then you have been under my roof. You are not suggesting I have been negligent, I hope?"

Lothíriel bit her lip and said no more.

"It _is_ a curious tradition though," said Raissel, "that one man should be allowed to chaperone one woman only, and not his close kin."

"Not so curious," said Faramir lightly. Raissel's features drew into a puzzled frown, and Lothíriel pretended to lose interest, the way she always did – rather huffily – when something went over her head.

No one had been eager to inform the girls of the plain truth: that in years long past, the riders had lain with the women they brought to the celebrations under the night sky, and that they had believed unclaimed women would be taken by shadows and spirits instead.

Now the custom remained just that – a custom – something to retain the sense of mystique and secrecy that surrounded the celebrations. Of course, it was also still a night of feasting and drinking, and it would be wrong to have a woman there without a man to take responsibility and stand up for her virtue if necessary. Éomer was not sure about spirits, but men certainly tended to take some liberties when inebriated.

They had eyed each other, he uncertainly and Faramir with barely repressed amusement, and in the end, Éowyn spoke with some impatience: "The festivities are linked to fertility, and the way it used to be celebrated would be inappropriate for a woman without a husband or lover. Hence the tradition."

"Oh," had Lothíriel said, and Raissel had blushed furiously.

"But it is only a tradition; and it has been some hundreds of years since we celebrated in that way. Now we just dance – and not as you Gondorians do, in sets and couples, but men with men, and women with women, as it has always been in the Mark," said Éowyn. "In all likelihood, you would find it quite tame. Well, most of the time, anyway." This in a low voice directed at Faramir.

That afternoon, Éothain had asked Faramir for permission to invite Raissel, with the shrewd excuse that it might be agreeable to Éowyn to have another woman along to keep her company during the dances. Faramir, as Raissel's guardian while she remained a part of his household, had readily agreed.

Éomer doubted Faramir would have forbidden it in any case. Some men of Gondor were so forward thinking that it bordered on naïve.

That left the awkward matter of Lothíriel. For some days he was expecting someone to bring it up – Éothain, who never minced words, or his sister perhaps, yet no one did. Perhaps they believed him indifferent, but of course he was not. Quite the contrary. Of late, he had found himself rapidly obsessed with Lothíriel, listening in to her conversations and following her across the room with his eyes in a way that seemed at times bordering on unwholesome. He knew where she took her breakfast, and where she spent hours curled up with a book. He watched her sneaking glances at herself in every window and looking-glass, strutting like a peacock in stately dresses and elegant hairstyles, only to sneak off to the stables, or the barn where she had hidden the Southron kittens from Éowyn's wrath. She was more disordered and yet so much more girlish than his sister had ever been, so contrary that it seemed as if she was constantly bored with one incarnation of herself and eager to change into another.

And ever since the night after the battle, when she had so audaciously forced her tender ministrations on him, the surges of attraction he felt whenever he saw her (and the number of cold baths he took) had increased – a lot. Just yesterday he had witnessed her storm into the Great Hall, fresh from the stables, dragging in hay and mud and who knows what else in with her, even though the floor had just been scrubbed in preparation for dinner ("I could just strangle you sometimes," had Raissel said), and it took everything not to accost her and drag her into an alcove right there.

He knew there were only two explanations. Either his period of abstinence had taken such a toll that he now experienced arousal at the most inexplicable scenes, or he had begun falling for Lothíriel. He was not sure which option he considered more inconvenient.

And now this! Éomer had not invited a woman to _endwist_ since he had taken Leofwen, one of the maids at Meduseld, whom half of Elfhelm's éored had been in love with in those days. (She had only eyes for him, naturally.) Bedding her had been extremely pleasurable, not in the least because of the envy it inspired in the others, and their affair had lasted almost half a year. It was Éothain who had dared him to bring her; a bad thought, but Éomer could never resist rising to a challenge then. His uncle had been furious, perhaps the last time he had been properly chided in his life. "It is all very well to enjoy a dalliance in the privacy of your own rooms," had Théoden thundered the day after, "but you are of the line of Eorl!" Éomer felt an equal mixture of shame and amusement at the memory. At the time, he thought he would never feel worse. Yet the girl had been exceedingly lovely, and he had been young then, and foolish, eighteen perhaps, or nineteen years old? It was not long after that the Mark had begun to bleed under the onslaught of hidden enemies, and then Wormtongue's poisons and poisonous words caused a rift between him and his uncle, the beginning of the unnatural dotage that had brought them so much grief. He had not escorted any women to _endwist_ after that; he had no cousins and it was politically too dangerous to signal his preferences openly. His dalliances became more perfunctory, about quick pleasure and the relief of tension, until they faded altogether as duty to his land and lord claimed all he could give.

And thus it was dangerous business, asking Lothíriel. Of course, it had been long since the custom had been strictly observed and a man could only have his wife or lover under his protection. Lothíriel was his sister's cousin by marriage, practically family, and it might even be seen as a deliberate snub to leave her out of the festivities. On the other hand, Lothíriel was no blood relative of his – or at least, far too distant a relative to count as such in this case – and there had been rumours about a potential union between them in the past. Taking her to _endwist_ might well be interpreted as a signal; to his men, and, now that she knew the origins of the tradition, to Lothíriel herself. That might not be altogether a bad thing, though. Lothíriel looked exceptionally kissable when she was uncomfortable.

And yet it was not sensible to bring her with him and what had Amrothos said? It was healthy for Lothíriel to be occasionally disappointed in life.

At their light and early supper, Éowyn brought news from the healing wing: "Aldor is doing a little better, but it would very unwise for him to spend a night in the woods. Elric has decided to stay behind as well."

"I am sorry," said Raissel. "Let's make sure to send up tea and cakes before we go." Then she turned to Faramir, shy and uncertain as always when she addressed the Steward, and asked: "Shall we be safe in the woods tonight, my lord? I know you must be well prepared." She blushed; perhaps fearing her question had been impertinent and untrusting.

"You should not worry, my lady," said Faramir, gallant and reassuring. "We have changed all routes and patrols, and have indeed taken extra care over the last days. And we shall be very near the elven colony tonight. Our enemies know better than to test those borders."

Raissel smiled in response, although the tension did not completely leave the set of her shoulders.

"That is a beautiful pendant, Raissel," said Éowyn, indicating the string of silver pearls Raissel was wearing around her neck. "I have never seen pearls like these before."

"They are found in the Bay, near Edhellond," supplied Lothíriel, her voice a little dull.

"Yes, they are lovely," said Raissel, beaming. "You were kind to let me borrow them, Lothíriel. Should I help you tidy before we leave?"

"No, you should stay well away! That room is all mine tonight," said Lothíriel. "I have plans of my own, you know."

"Ah, hm. What are you planning, cousin?" asked Faramir with some suspicion.

"Oh, nothing too outrageous." With a careless shrug Lothíriel helped herself to more honey-roasted pumpkin. They were her favourite, Éomer recalled. He did not know if pumpkins would grow in the Riddermark. The two thoughts came uncomfortably close together. "I think I shall have a huge fire – Raissel has been saying the nights are too hot for one still – and then enjoy having the bed all to myself. It will be the very height of comfort and luxury!"

"As long as you don't burn down my house," said Éowyn drily.

Éomer spoke before he could waste another thought on the matter. "What are you all talking about? Lothíriel is going with me, of course."

A silence fell. Éomer studiously avoided Éowyn's eyes.

"Pardon?" said Raissel, too surprised to be shy.

"I'm taking Lothíriel to _endwist._ "

"Oh, but Lothíriel said she - " Raissel paused, hesitated and looked to her friend.

"Is there a problem?" Éomer asked, raising his eyebrows.

"None at all," said Lothíriel quickly. "I had a headache earlier, but it has quite vanished."

"Good," said Éomer. "Then it is settled."

He saw the conflicting emotions – joy, embarrassment, outrage – do battle in her eyes, and, as he would have predicted, the latter won.

As soon as the others were caught up in conversation again, he could not resist teasing her. "Thank you, Lothi, for indulging me. I know the event must seem a little risqué for a princess of Gondor."

She flushed deeply, but her voice was cool and collected. "I should thank you for the efficient manner of your invitation. It is so much more thrilling than just being _asked_ , don't you think?"

"It must have slipped my mind," he said nonchalantly. "Best hurry and dress. We leave for the woods in less than an hour."

oOo

Lothíriel's thoughts were a torrent of rain, like the storms that would now be sweeping Dol Amroth and the rest of the Bay of Belfalas. How dare the man unsettle her so! On purpose! And with altogether far too much delight. She called for Maeneth, emptied her wardrobe and strew her dresses across her bed. They all seemed unsuitable: too elegant, too plain, or too impractical. A feast that required her to remain out all night in the woods in this weather! What a ridiculous notion. She might catch her death with a chill.

Her eyes caught on a dress that Aunt Ivriniel had sent her, silk taffeta and brocade in a red so deep it was almost black. It had a simple silhouette, as was becoming fashionable in Minas Tirith, and the weave was pliant and forgiving, unlike some of those damask monstrosities, but not so that people would instantly know she was not wearing a corset. The collar was quite high, though. It was why she had yet to wear it, and it would definitely be too fashionable and prim for this occasion. Lothíriel studied the dress for a moment, feeling the fabric and holding the sleeves up to her wrists. It was a lovely colour, sensual and sensible at the same time, and it suited her skin tone perfectly. Determined, she rose to her feet and got out a small pair of silver scissors from Raissel's workbox.

"My lady, please!" called Maeneth, but Lothíriel had already made the first cut to the neckline. "That fabric is very dear," added her maid, seeming almost a little dazed.

"I shall cut off only an inch or two," said Lothíriel with a shrug. "Besides, it will be probably suffer more out in the woods tonight. I should expect it to be beyond saving tomorrow morning."

Maeneth looked positively horrified at that.

"Fix the seam," commanded Lothíriel when she was satisfied with the cut. "I'll dress my hair myself. A simple lace braid should do."

Some half hour later she was wearing the newly improved dress. She gazed at her reflection and bit her lips a few times to add colour to them. Then she pinned down the last wayward curl, and hurried back to the Great Hall.

oOo

They rode for about an hour, while the sun was setting on Ithilien, and the winds blew cold around them. Ahead, Lothíriel could already hear voices, the crackling of fires and the smell of apples and roasted meat drifted through the trees.

"Don't dismount," murmured Éomer as they approached the clearing. "I will help you down. Your feet should not touch the ground without my aid; that will signal you are under my protection."

"Does that mean you will have to carry me everywhere the whole night?" asked Lothíriel with a wide-eyed innocent glance.

"Just the first step," said Éomer brusquely. He got off Firefoot, and handed over the reins to one of his men. She thought he might offer her a knee, as the noble men of Gondor were wont to do, but then she felt his hands on her waist, and she placed her hands on his shoulders almost involuntarily as he pulled her forward. Her boots touched the ground before she could relish the almost-embrace, and then a hand brushed her shoulder and he spoke in a low voice. "Let me know, though, if you start feeling unsafe."

For once, she was dumb. "Yes."

"It's a lovely dress, Lothi," said Éomer.

The first hours of the evening passed like a ritual. There were no hierarchies, but a great many customs to be observed. Éothain could always be prevailed upon to explain whatever seemed to Lothíriel and Raissel altogether too puzzling.

" _Endwist_ means the end of abundance, you see," he said, as he showed them how to bury a strange nut they had found in their bowls. "We give thanks for what we have received during the harvest, and make sure the earth is ready for the long sleep. For everything we eat and drink tonight, we offer something back."

Then they danced, men together and women together, as was the way in the Mark. Supposedly couple dancing was considered unseemly, but the way the men made a show of their prowess and agility while they danced did not make it seem all that much more prudent in Lothíriel's eyes. The dances were fast, joyful and uproarious. One was a sword dance, and Lothíriel was greatly impressed that her cousin Faramir seemed to have mastered the steps well, if not with quite the same confidence as the Rohirrim. He bowed out only at the very end of the dance, when the drummers increased their tempo and Lothíriel had to wonder how no one had yet gotten an arm cut off, as they whirled across the clearing, swords clanging together in time of the beat.

"Do we get to dance with swords?" asked Lothíriel, half hope and half fear.

"With ribbons," responded Éowyn. "Not quite as exciting. Although I believe one year one of the ladies got so entangled in them that she sprained her wrist."

"I'll be very careful," said Lothíriel with a demure grin.

They were only three women, and the dances were designed for larger groups, yet most of the steps and figures involved pairs or threes, so Éowyn could still give them some idea of what it must look like with many dancers together: beautiful and jubilant. Raissel was soon out of breath, but Éowyn and Lothíriel spun round and round, laughing, until they were so dizzy that Lothíriel had to take hold of a nearby ash tree to keep from falling over.

"Dare I cut in?" came Éomer's voice beside them.

Lothíriel, surprised, and yet not overly so, reached out to take his hands in hers. "Couple dancing, my lord? Is that entirely appropriate?"

"Well, we are in Gondor, after all. Some blending of traditions should be acceptable." He adjusted her grip, and showed her how to hold her arm, loosely and softly bent at the elbow. "Besides," he added in a low voice, "could I ever resist the opportunity to instruct you in anything, Lothi?"

"Is that what we call it now?"

They danced awhile, Lothíriel mimicking his movements and adding a few flourishes of her own.

"Keep your heels together and put your feet all the way down," commanded Éomer, unimpressed with her efforts. "Like so."

She deliberately trod on his toes, and before she knew what was happening, he had pulled her closer and lifted her off the ground in punishment.

"Better at leading than following, I see," observed Éomer, swaying her round in half-circles.

Her heart thumped in her throat and she howled in mock-protest. "Let me down! I will try better!"

They were further from the other dancers now, near the edge of the clearing, drums and pipes mingling with the murmur of voices and the wind through the trees. The sky was black here, and the stars shone bright where they peeped through the branches. Éomer put her down and Lothíriel tried to step through the final refrains. She was not sure if the king of Rohan made her a terribly unwilling student or if she was distracted by his hands on her back, her arms, her waist, but she had never before so fumbled her way through a dance. In the end she was left breathless, staring into his blue eyes. "It is a fine dance," she said.

"You made rather a mess of it," he returned.

She scowled, then looked around to ensure they would not be overheard. "Thank you for the lesson, my lord," she spoke quietly, brushing his knuckles with her thumb. "I could teach you how they dance in the countryside in Belfalas. But then they would definitely make us marry on the spot."

The king of Rohan's face was almost crimson – ah ha! ha! – and Lothíriel turned round and walked back to the bonfire, grinning in triumph.

More food was served, honey-cakes, berries and a strange flat bread to go with the freshly-caught fish. The riders gathered around the fire, reciting riddles and poems in their foreign tongue, and singing their songs, at times full of life and energy, then sober and pensive. After some pressing, Lothíriel and Raissel performed a song together as well, a sea ballad about a prince who fell in love with the wind and sailed out into a storm rather than marry the bride intended for him. The words were sad, and the song seemed soft and intimate for the occasion, but they could sing and play it well, with some pretty harmonies. Their audience was gracious, and some riders had tears on their face by the time Raissel struck the last note on her lyre. The Rohirrim cried easily and often, knew Lothíriel, and made no attempt to hide it, especially when they were moved by music or poetry. Still, it made her feel abashed, and a little unsettled, so she took the lyre from Raissel and implored Osric, the best musician among Éomer's riders, to play _Wild Mountain Rose_ , a cheerful and fast-paced song known in Gondor and Rohan both, before the night could take a turn for the uncomfortable.

Osric soon gave in to her flattery and obliged, and when Lothíriel looked up she saw Éomer staring at her intently. Her instincts told her to blush and look away, so she rose to her feet and walked over to sit down next to him.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked.

"No," said Lothíriel, honestly, boldly.

He returned a minute later with her cloak, and draped it around her before he sat back down. It was gallant, almost strangely so, but Lothíriel was languid with song and ale, and longed to be touched, so that she almost sighed with frustration. Instead, she stretched her legs out towards the fire and rested her elbows on her knees, finding comfort in the pull on her muscles and the heat of the flames. Éomer soon fell into conversation with some men beside him, laughing and jesting in rapid Rohirric, and Lothíriel studied him from underneath her lashes. She was not left lonely and thoughtful for long, though: Éothain and Raissel joined her with more ale, as Éowyn and Faramir had disappeared into a copse of trees together. "Well, they do have those six children to beget," wanted to say Lothíriel, but Raissel clasped a hand in front of her mouth before she could get all the words out.

A few hours before dawn, the clouds broke and rain started pouring down on them. The girls fled under blankets while the men tried to keep the fires going. Raissel was shivering beside her, teeth chattering even when Lothíriel wrapped her in her arms and cloak to keep warm. They laughed, amusement mingled with a touch of misery.

Éothain came to their rescue, and managed to rekindle the fire, but the rain fell even faster now, and the flames soon turned to smoke. Seeing confident and sharp Éothain with such a look of helplessness on his face made Lothíriel laugh even more. She could have been warm at home in her bed, but she was not, and she felt a wild, swooping joy at the thought. "There is only one thing to do," she said, shaking off the wet blankets and pulling a protesting Raissel to her feet.

"What is this? Lothíriel! Stars, it is cold!"

"We should dance more," said Lothíriel, twirling her friend around.

"No, stop! We can't; it's too dirty," groaned Raissel.

Lothíriel deliberately stamped into a puddle, splashing mud all over the front of their dresses. "Nothing to do now."

"Lothíriel!"

"Raissel!"

And with a sigh of exasperation and then a very deliberate splash in Lothíriel's direction, her friend gave in. Half dancing through the rain and half chasing one another, they rushed through the clearing until the skies grew brighter and they were very, very warm indeed.

"Oooh!" cried Raissel, breathless with laughter and dismay, as she sank down unto a fallen log. "You are awful."

Lothíriel twirled around a bit more, even dared a cartwheel, until she nearly bumped into a tall looming figure to her right. It was Éomer.

"Come here, fury," he said, catching her by the arm and leading her over to the newly revived fire. He sat her down, wrapped her in some dry blankets and handed her a cup of some steaming hot herbal draught. "Drink this and sit still a while. You will not catch ill on my watch."

She smiled and let herself be subdued. "This is a wonderful celebration. I wish we could do it every year."

"Or every month," sighed Raissel in delight as she joined her.

"We'd be going through a lot of dresses," said Lothíriel dubiously, brushing splatters of dirt off her bodice. Her skirts were well beyond saving: drenched and thick with mud that lay heavy on her ankles. Raissel just laughed and nestled herself more comfortably under her blankets.

At last dawn came, and the sunlight broke through the branches, and the riders of Rohan cheered as the remainder of the ale was poured out of kegs and mugs – a final gift to the land for its hospitality. It was not very much at all, but the land seemed to have had its fill just like the revelers, and they trod through puddles of ale as well as water on their way back to the horses. The whole clearing smelled of alcohol, fermented grain, horses, and smoke.

"Let's hope we weren't too close to the elven colony," observed Éowyn laconically.

Raissel got her boot stuck in the mud and stumbled against Éothain, who took her arm with a smile. Lothíriel looked around, but saw no opportunity for a similarly convenient lapse of grace. She walked next to Éomer in silence, enjoying the quiet of the dawn and the crisp air of the morning.

She found Suldis where she had left her, already fed and watered and eager to return home. She stroked her mare's flank and combed her fingers through her mane when Éomer came up behind her, holding Firefoot.

"Can you ride?" asked Éomer. "Or are you too tired?"

She glanced up at him, and up to his great horse, and wondered for a moment what would happen if she would say that she was too fatigued, that she could barely stand and if he would be so kind as to see her home safe. She felt her lips curl up into a smile. "I can ride," she said. "You should help me up, though. My lord."

He smiled back at her and for a moment she was in his arms. Then he put her onto Suldis's back in one simple motion, as if she weighed nothing at all.

oOo

Back in his chambers, Éomer washed his hands and face, then sat on his bed. The morning sun shone brightly through the glass doors leading onto the balcony, a bird sang and the air still smelled like rain. He swallowed once, looked up and ran his hands through his hair, and swallowed again. Then he let out a muttered curse. The girl was far too bewitching and he knew this and had brought this torment onto himself nonetheless. Sitting and staring into the fire, standing around drinking in that pretty dress, aye, she was a fine thing, but Lothíriel in motion, dancing and riding and running, was attractive beyond decency. All night he had wanted nothing more than to drag her away to a secluded grove, and see what would happen to that teasing smile then. Of course, one could not take a princess of Gondor for a tumble in the grass, no matter how well deserved it would be.

Éothain entered, looking tired and worn, with a light breakfast and a pitcher of water. They planned to rest until dinner, and then start preparations for their departure the day after tomorrow.

"Anything else, my lord?" asked Éothain, as he placed the tray on the table.

Éomer could not quite bring himself to say no.

"Sire?" asked Éothain again. And then, a little worried: "Éomer?"

Éomer buried his face in his hands, rubbed his brow and finally said just one word: "Lothíriel."

When he looked up, he saw Éothain leaning against the doorpost, looking unreasonably amused. "Ah. So we are finally going to have this conversation? Or do you mean I should just deliver her to your chambers? Because in that case, much as it pains me to disobey an order from my lord…"

Annoyed at his captain's flippancy in face of his dilemma, Éomer gestured to the chair near the window. "Yes, we will have this conversation. Sit."

Éothain obeyed, still with an insubordinate grin.

"Some wine?" asked Éomer brusquely.

Éothain rose to his feet to serve, but Éomer was one step ahead of him, locating a bottle and pouring two goblets of which he handed one to Éothain. Béma, it was still _endwist,_ and he needed his friend, not his captain. He did not know if it was the lack of sleep, or the copious amount of ale he had consumed, but suddenly he felt he had kept this in for far too long, because he was king and being king was great, but also entirely tiresome, at times.

It made him nostalgic. "Remember when we were just two unbled colts in Elfhelm's éored?"

"Ha! You were always the King's nephew. And I was always just Éothain of Aldburg. You rose to your first command within a year. Do you truly believe we were treated the same?"

"Why yes. I was simply far better than you."

"Oh, that must have been it."

They smirked at each other now. Everything had changed, and nothing.

"Have I been so transparent?" asked Éomer then.

Éothain shuffled his feet. "To some, certainly. Aldor has not dared to even look at the princess for the past two weeks at least. Every time you saw them together, you seemed as if you would as soon strangle the boy."

That sobered him right enough. He had never been jealous in his life – an emotion he felt plagued only the insecure and selfish – and he had no idea his behaviour had been responsible for the cooling of Aldor and Lothíriel's friendship. He had suspected Lothíriel had jilted the boy in some way. "I am sorry," he said.

"Perhaps it is for the best," shrugged Éothain. "Some distance will do the lad good. It seems inconvenient at best to be in love with one's queen."

Éomer groaned. "Spare me. Lothíriel – queen!"

"I am not sure what else you had in mind," said Éothain. "But I fear it is my duty to advice against it. Bad politics. Besides, you are a king, Lothíriel is a princess. It is not that unsuitable a match."

"You see no objections?"

"That is not what I said." Éothain paused and stared down his goblet for a moment. "Would you like me to speak candidly, my lord?"

"Have you ever done otherwise?" Éomer sighed and gestured for Éothain to continue.

"You know I like her. I have always liked her; and others will like her too. She can be a charmer, certainly."

"Aye – if she wishes it."

"Indeed." Éothain awarded himself a top-up, even though he had barely drunk any wine. "So. As far as I can see, there are three potential obstacles."

"Go on."

"The usual first of all. You know all this. The men of the Eastmark would prefer to strengthen ties with those Stonelander lords closer to our borders, some would rather you choose a bride from among our own because they fear for the independence of the Mark, and so on."

"Yes, I know all this, but when did _you_ become a politician, my friend?"

"I pay attention. Yet I would not take this too seriously. You must remember that no bride you take will be universally popular at first. Most will be delighted at you taking any bride at all, and every man who rode with you to the Black Gate has the highest respect for Prince Imrahil. This will speak in the princess's favour, as will her previous visit to Edoras, for she is not entirely a stranger to the Mark, nor is the Mark a completely unknown land to her."

Éomer leaned back, a little amazed at his captain's quick reasoning. It occurred to him that Hethlil had been right. Éothain, who had gone into the war believing every nursery rhyme and bit of superstition ever imparted on him, was changed. "Be careful, or I may have to promote you and raise you to the nobility."

"Your second problem," said Éothain, ignoring him, "is more pressing."

"Indeed?"

"I shall not beat around the bush. Lothíriel is green, and in the Mark the knowledge she has will be close to worthless. She knows nothing of farming, herding or the running of a mead hall. She does not even know our tongue. She will need a lot of guidance, and will she heed orders and advice, much of which would have to come from you as her king and husband? Well…"

"Don't torment me."

"I won't; after all, this obstacle is relative too. In the end, the only thing a Queen really needs to do is bear sons. Now, we cannot really go around testing in advance whether Lothíriel will be any good at that. But," continued Éothain with a wicked smile, "there is every reason to be hopeful."

Éomer clenched his fists. "What. Could. You. Possibly. Mean. By. That?"

"Nothing!" Éothain held up his hands. "She comes from a large family and is one of four children herself."

"Ah."

"Besides. You can just tell, can't you?"

"Tell what?"

"You know what I mean. Lothíriel. With those eyes. Those twists and tumbles. You can just tell."

Éomer buried his face in his hands again.

"She'll be prodigiously talented at bed-sports."

Éomer glared at him from between his fingers, still not fully in control of this new sensation of jealousy and unsure –however true the words might ring - if Éothain was allowed to make such an observation.

"Don't worry," said Éothain, reading his mind. "I wish you joy with her. Most of us do not so enjoy battle that they want to invite it into their marriage-bed as well. Also, about that promotion…"

Éomer cleared his throat. He thought he could guess where this was heading. "Raissel?"

"Aye, Raissel."

This was not unexpected, and yet Éothain's choice surprised him. Raissel was, well, so very much a lady of Gondor, kind and ethereal, but somewhat bland too, full of empty civilities. "She does not ride very well," he said at last.

"She is tender-hearted – and a great beauty."

"Aye – that she is," said Éomer. "Quite possibly the loveliest woman in Gondor, if one does not count Queen Arwen, of course." And they looked well together, as he had observed last night, Raissel and Lothíriel, close and affectionate as they were.

"Oh no," said Éothain, leering at him while downing his wine. "You cannot have more than one."

Éomer huffed. He knew that, of course. But would it hurt anyone to let him indulge in a little fantasy every now and then? No. With some effort he brought his mind back to the matter at hand. "So, what is this third problem?"

"Ah," said Éothain with a smug expression. "That one, I think, is the most acute."

"Hm."

"What does Lothíriel want herself? She has never taken a particular liking to you, and she is rather a willful lass. I think perhaps she may not have you."

Éomer made a dismissive wave. In his experience, women tended to just fall into his lap, and everything about Lothíriel's body language indicated she was plenty willing to do so. "We had a rough start, perhaps, but I am the obvious match for her. In fact, Aragorn has hinted something to this effect on multiple occasions, and I am sure Imrahil would not oppose it."

"Ah. I see the start of a great romance here."

"These are your objections?"

"I have no objections, truly. She won't make you a terrible queen. There is no malice in her."

"That is the best you can give me? Lothíriel is not evil?"

"The best I can give you is that you want her, and possibly love her, and that carries great weight."

"Kings do not marry for love. And certainly not to satisfy some sort of base need."

"It is the only thing worth marrying for, if you ask me."

Éomer did not inquire which of the two Éothain was referring to. He stretched out and ran his hand through his hair. Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, Queen of the Riddermark. Would he leave her in charge when he rode into war? Or better to appoint a babysitter? What would he find upon his return if Lothíriel was given free rein, or would it be easy to entrust her with power, knowing that she would probably forget to use it anyway? And how would Lothíriel enjoy the long and cold winters of Meduseld, weaving patiently with the other women in the workroom, she who was used to the excitement of Minas Tirith and the warmth of Dol Amroth?

He had never felt this indecisive in his life. "I need more time," he said at last.

Éothain looked thoughtful for a moment. "Did not the Prince invite you to join him and his family in Dol Amroth?"

"He did. He seems to think we might travel north through the path under the mountain now that the dead no longer guard it. Indeed, he was quite eager to test if we might not use it as a more convenient trading route. I did not think it very wise."

"I agree that seems a harebrained scheme. I would not go under the mountain for all the fair maidens of Middle-Earth, dead or no dead. That place is cursed."

Éomer grinned. Some of the old Éothain remained after all.

"But the journey is not too far even if we do not take a shortcut," continued Éothain. "We could be back in the Mark in six weeks, if you are capable of making up your mind before the next full moon."

"It will be nigh midwinter ere we return. We may well travel through snow north of the mountains."

Éothain shrugged. "Nothing we have not done before. It is simple: no one will begrudge you the extra weeks if you return with a bride; and if you don't, well, your advisors are bound to be annoyed no matter the exact day of your return. Best marry one of Elfhelm's girls quickly then and have it done with."

He was right and Éomer nodded. "So be it. We shall go with Imrahil."

* * *

 _A/N Unbeta-ed and fuelled by much caffeine, so feel free to point out any glaring errors! I hope it was still enjoyable!_

 _PoemstheEarth, I hope the terror-clown nightmares are past (and if not, no shame. I am still getting over the 1990 version). Thank you as always for your enthusiastic reviews!_

 _And thanks to everyone reading and following. :-) Your reviews and comments make me so happy!_

 _The Mysteries of Nan Garan are of course a little play on The Mysteries of Udolpho - the novel Catherine and Isabella are obsessed with in Northanger Abbey. They're both amazingly horrid, I assure you._

 _And now for the bad: there will not be any updates to this story for a little while. Before you get too annoyed, please hear me out. There are currently six chapters and an epilogue to go, and the next chapter will push this story into its final dramatic arc. What I've planned is quite disruptive, and all the chapters are intimately linked, and I just want to make absolutely sure I get it right. So, I have decided I will not start posting again until it is all done. The break may be frustrating now, but believe me: if I stopped between chapter 17, 18 and 19 – or heaven forbid between 21 and 22 - you would absolutely hate me! The final chapter and the epilogue are finished, so that is something to hold on to: they will be up (srsly, I'll make sure it's in my will, or something). And also: when I now start posting again, you will know that the story is complete & it won't be long until you are reading the finale._

 _Of None of the Usual Inducements anyway._


	18. Every Sort of Mischief

**Every Sort of Mischief**

The candlelight cast shadows on the drapes, and outside the rain was pouring down like a restless crowd, hurried feet landing on soft earth. Lothíriel nestled in a little closer to Raissel and threw an arm around her, breathing in the scent of spring roses and violets. She remembered how she had once wasted an entire month's allowance on oils and perfumes in the hope of finding something like the mixture Raissel used to dress her hair for herself: delicate and fresh and understated. Yet all she had managed to do was make her bedchamber smell like a bawdy house (that was Amrothos' assessment of the experiment, anyway).

"So, King Éomer is coming to Dol Amroth with you," whispered Raissel.

"With me and father. Aye – it seems so."

"Do you think he loves you?"

Lothíriel smiled into her friend's hair. "I think he would like to bed me, of that I am certain. Or lie with me in a field somewhere so that no one will ever know."

Raissel squirmed out of her embrace and turned around, eyes wide as saucers. "Lothíriel – how can you say it?"

"It is true."

"He cannot think of bedding you without a wedding! He is a king. You are a princess!"

"Do _you_ think King Éomer is in love with me?" asked Lothíriel.

Raissel sank back into the pillows was silent for a while. "Hethlil thinks so," she said at last.

"Oh," said Lothíriel. That was news, and her thoughts and memories did cartwheels, rolls, a back walkover.

"Are you in love with him?" asked Raissel.

"With Éomer?" She turned over and hid her face under the blankets.

"He is very handsome."

"Aye – and rich," she said in a muffled voice.

Raissel poked her in the side.

"Or maybe not so very rich," reconsidered Lothíriel, thinking back to the simplicity of life in Edoras.

Raissel poked her in the side again. "Be serious."

"His stables are rather splendid, I suppose."

"You are evading the question. You _are_ in love."

Lothíriel let her voice slide into a mocking drawl. "And if one would melt down all those golden pillars in the hall, one could buy an adequate dress or two."

"Very well, if you don't want to talk, then let's go to sleep." Raissel blew out the candle with a sigh and the room turned black and cold.

Lothíriel wrapped herself tighter in her blankets. "It's too absurd," she whispered faintly into the darkness.

Raissel did not answer and Lothíriel could not be sure if her friend had heard her at all.

oOo

"I thought you had decided that a visit to Dol Amroth was best postponed until next year. Any reason for this sudden change of plans?"

Éowyn was lying on the sofa, obviously spent, but unwilling to seek her bed. She had always refused to know her own limits, and it might be their final night together for a long time to come. Éomer sat near the fireplace with the precious little Prince of Ithilien, Elboron, dozing in his arms.

"Mmm," muttered Éomer. "It just seemed the wiser course."

"And the better company?" suggested Éowyn with a wicked smile.

Éomer just raised an eyebrow in return.

"I hope you are not planning to take the paths under the mountain. I know Imrahil thinks they might be used for couriers now, but from what Legolas and Gimli told us, I do not think it wise." She propped herself up on an elbow and rested her head in her hand. "I suggested we send Amrothos to scout the possibilities. Faramir thought that a fine idea as well."

Éomer concurred. "Let Amrothos spend a season getting lost in caves before anyone else tries. We can still be back before midwinter if we take the long way around, and then Aldor should also be recovered enough to return with us. Besides, Imrahil and I have been talking about breeding some of our stallions into his lines for over a year. If I want to send some studs over in the spring, what better way to decide which ones are suited than to go see for myself?"

She looked at him with intent. "So. You just wish to have a close and personal look at Imrahil's… mares, and it cannot wait until next year?"

"Yes."

"For your breeding programme?"

"Yes."

"Mmm-hmm."

Éomer did not like the triumph in his sister's eyes. "I should inspect his stables and herds before I make any decisions."

"That is very sensible of you."

"I cannot foresee every circumstance and obstacle from afar."

"Indeed. Best follow them around a bit, study every detail of their gait and conformation, observe them in their natural habitat. These southern fillies are all gloss and fine lines; it can be hard to keep a clear head."

He threw caution to the wind. "Do you have an opinion to offer?"

She laughed as she rose to her feet and took the babe from his arms. "Not today. All I have ever wanted is your happiness. You should do what you think best, Éomer-King."

oOo

The next morning they were ready to depart and Lothíriel bade farewell to her cousins. Éowyn was rather dignified and almost a little distant, but Faramir surprised her by giving her a warm hug and thanking her for both her work and her wonderful company.

"I am sure you will both miss me a great deal," demurred Lothíriel, discomfited by his earnestness. "In fact, I left Éowyn a book in case she got bored with you."

"How thoughtful. Although I must warn you that Éowyn is not a great reader."

"Ah, she'll like this one, I think. It is… very inspiring."

"Oh-ho. _Mysteries of Nan Garan_ ,is it?"

Lothíriel did a double take. "How do you know of _The Mysteries of Nan Garan_?"

"King Elessar recommended it to me last winter. Let me think, I believe my favourite part was the scene in which Gestedis is lost in the forest. She tears her dress after it catches on some tree just as Ogoldir arrives – I thought the author managed to bring such pathos to the inopportune incident."

Lothíriel was too dumbfounded to speak.

"I suppose I had better endeavour to be very entertaining then," finished Faramir with a smile.

After embracing Raissel one last time, so fiercely that her friend complained of lack of breath, Lothíriel made her way to the courtyard. A mere ten days and she could be in Dol Amroth again. She had of course insisted she would ride Suldis rather than have her father prepare a carriage, which had caused Maeneth, who was a rather sorry horsewoman and had never travelled such a distance overland before, no small amount of dismay. Lothíriel made a wry face at the memory of her maid's appeals. A carriage would be far less comfortable in this hilly terrain, and how humiliating would it be considering they'd be travelling with King Éomer's éored! Maeneth would just have to come to terms with it and endure.

Lothíriel was about to mount Suldis – still without saddling or bridling her; the voice training was coming along splendidly - when Éomer strode past, dressed as plainly as one of his riders, golden hair lit with the morning sun. He was very fine to look at. She had always thought so, even if he were self-important and impossible to please.

"My lord," she blurted before she could stop herself. He turned around and his expression made her toes curl with glee. "Would you be so kind as to help me on my horse?"

His smile turned suspicious. "You are perfectly capable of that yourself."

"I do not think I can now," said Lothíriel, drawing circles with her foot in the earth. "It is strange how quickly one falls out of the habit."

He stepped closer. "Oh indeed?"

She batted her eyelashes at him. "Yes. Muscles atrophy, one gets rather unsure of oneself. I'm sure you understand."

"Minx."

"No one is watching."

Then her father appeared around the corner, and with a guilty start Lothíriel scurried up Suldis' back on her own accord, making Éomer laugh out loud. She puffed her cheeks at him, and then directed Suldis towards the gate.

Once out of sight, Lothíriel chided herself under her breath. _Fool._ Flirting with Éomer had always seemed so harmless. After all, he had rejected her person long ago, and she was sure that if he had ever shown the slightest bit of interest in an alliance, her father would have jumped at the chance. It had been fun to make Éomer feel bad about his indifference in the light of her eligibility, a little conflicted, maybe. And then, all of a sudden, the man might want to wed her, just because he would like to bed her. It seemed Aunt Ivriniel was right: it was dangerous for women to play around with romance.

But goodness, it was fun to flirt with Éomer, altogether too much fun to stop now. It made life more vivid somehow, and his interest in her was so flattering that she felt like the puffers that swam in the bay – full to bursting with confidence, larger than she ever thought she could be.

And thus for Lothíriel the first day of her journey home, already long looked-for and eagerly anticipated, was a joyous one. Her father rode with a small retinue, his squire and guards, and his old friend and advisor Hinnor. All of them had known her for years, and most of them remembered her in her swaddling clothes, and treated her accordingly. In short, they were no fun at all, and so Lothíriel rode with her friends from Rohan whenever she could. This came with the added bonus that Maeneth left her alone – her maid was terrified of the loud and fair Rohirrim, and never knew how to behave around these "crude savages" who still somehow outranked her. Unchaperoned and with her father at a safe distance, Lothíriel was free to ask her questions and pick up a few words of Rohirric. She also finally learned who this Bema was they kept invoking in moments of agitation. (She wondered if her father knew. He might have a thing or two to say if he knew she was surrounded by men wont to refer to a Vala's private parts at the drop of a hat).

Their first trek was long and by the time they halted, Maeneth was so exhausted from riding that she could hardly bring herself to help Lothíriel with her hair, let alone carry water or make the beds. Lothíriel accepted the situation with a shrug and employed two of the Rohirrim to run errands for her while she fed Suldis choice treats and lay back on the grass to soak up the last rays of the autumn sun. Stew was served, and roast boar from the spit, and while Maeneth retired immediately after supper, Lothíriel stayed up as the men drank and told tales around the fire. She had wondered if none of them resented this unexpected extension of their journey, or the slow pace as they travelled to Dol Amroth, but encountered only curiosity and interest. None of them had ever seen the sea, or the cloud forests of the south, and could not even imagine such a sight. She answered their questions as well she could, and her yearning for her homelands nearly swept her away as she reminisced about the bustling markets of the city, and afternoons of scaling cliffs and catching razor clams as the tide rolled back. Right now, the storm season would be coming to an end, but it would be another moon before the cold would set in. Until then, everything would be green, with calm waters under a bright shining sun. _Laereg,_ the little summer before Mettarë. The men of Rohan would see Dol Amroth at its very best, and it made her glad.

oOo

Her joy was somewhat less when she woke stiff, sore and ill-rested the day after, and by dinnertime she had come to greatly regret some of her earlier decisions. Riding long distance without a saddle hurt! She wished she could call her past self to account – her thighs were ablaze with exhaustion, and the less said about her seat the better. She let Suldis trot as smoothly as she could, but still every step seemed to send a jolt of pain through her body. When they dismounted at the top of a hillock, Lothíriel realised that not even pride would see her through seven more days of this. She claimed a cup of wine, then walked up to her father's squire, Amathor, and asked him if he could saddle Suldis for her without drawing too much attention to himself. Then she found a quiet spot and with some regret changed out of her gown and into her breeches.

It was too much to hope her metamorphosis would go unnoticed to the riders of Rohan, however, and she was too fatigued to pass it off as a whim.

"Pay up, Captain," said Leof to Éothain when he saw her riding up.

"You said after a day."

"Tis after a day. The second day is not yet done."

"Wait. You took a bet on the mettle of my thighs?" said Lothíriel in mock-horror, while tugging at her braid.

"Lothíriel!" came her father's displeased voice from behind them.

Curses. She had nearly forgotten he was there. "Sorry, father. Just an unthinking jest."

oOo

Lothíriel's various discomforts chased her out of bed early the next morning and she wandered down to the waterfront, a small tributary to the Sirith, which they would be crossing today. Reeds swayed in the morning wind, and a muster of storks flew overhead. She noticed Éothain, who had brought some of the horses down for a drink, and walked up to him with a skip in her step. She greeted the captain with a kiss and then turned to Éomer's Firefoot. He really was a monstrously tall horse. The top of her head did not even reach his shoulders.

"Be careful, Princess," warned Éothain. "Best keep a distance from this one. He has a temper in the morning."

Lothíriel ignored him and stepped closer, allowing Firefoot to nudge his nose into her head. She patted him gently in response, and then fed him one of the apples she had swiped from the supply train earlier. The stallion dispatched of it with a few delicate bites, then nuzzled her hand for more.

"Well," said Éothain, his arms behind his neck.

"I often helped Aldor while he was grooming or feeding Firefoot," explained Lothíriel, as Firefoot gobbled up the second apple. "Once or twice Aldor was short on time, and I took care of him by myself. So we are good friends, aren't we, _miluir_?"

"Ah. And does Éomer-King know about this?"

"No." She drew out the word with a small close-lipped smile. "You should never overburden a ruling man with knowledge that does not affect him. My advice to you." She reached for the small sponge so she could clean Firefoot's face. "Here, let me help you." The stallion bore the wiping of his eyes and nose with quiet dignity, then blew contentedly as she went for his lips.

"You have a skillful hand. Firefoot tolerates few people; and genuinely likes only a handful," remarked Éothain. "Certainly not me. He once nearly bit my hand off when he was a colt."

"We must allow him to be an excellent judge of character."

"Exactly what Éomer said. I think it was that moment which made him decide to buy him."

She laughed, dropped the sponge in the bucket, and leaned against Firefoot's flanks while Éothain brushed out his chest and elbows. It seemed rather typical of the King of Rohan to choose a bad-tempered stallion as his battle-steed. Her father's swan knights rarely rode stallions at all, preferring instead the more even tempers of geldings and mares, but not the Rohirrim. They needed proof of their virility between their legs at all times, had Amrothos said as they were drinking one night. Lothíriel had shoved him in the side and responded that perhaps the men of Rohan were just far better at reining in any rampant desires. She grinned at the memory and curled her toes again.

Éothain looked over at her cocked head and turned out feet with merriment in his eyes. "Was your offer to help, or to stand and pose while I work?"

"What?"

"Can I trust you with a hoof pick?"

Lothíriel puffed her cheeks at him, retrieved the tool from the bag and set to work. "You are bold, Captain. Is that how you speak to a lady?"

"Only those I consider my friends," said Éothain. "In fact, there is a matter I have wished to discuss with you. As a friend. If you will allow it."

"You may always talk to me as a friend."

"It is about the lady Raissel."

Lothíriel set down Firefoot's right foot and moved over to the back. "I see."

"I love her," said Éothain simply.

It was said with such singular conviction that Lothíriel's heart twisted. "Bold indeed," she said with a sigh.

"Do you think I have a chance?"

Lothíriel bit her lip, got to her feet, and brushed the dirt off her leggings. She had thought to say no, but it was very flattering to be asked for advice in such a genuine manner, and as she paused and thought about it, it did not seem entirely hopeless. There were just obstacles, and obstacles might be overcome. Still, it would not do to give false hope. "As you are, no, you do not have a chance. Raissel may like you, but she is highborn, and you have no lands and no name to offer her. Never in an age will her parents allow it, and as her friend I cannot wish such a match for her."

"You do not think I am good enough for her," said Éothain calmly.

"That is not what I meant," said Lothíriel. "You must know I like you very much." She studied him from the corner of her eyes. He had never stopped brushing Firefoot, circular movements easy and gentle, not a flicker of ill humour. A gallant hero, indeed, she thought, although his face was droll rather than classically handsome, pleasing and open, with a crooked nose and blue eyes that shone with self-possession. "Raissel thinks the world of you," she added, betraying her friend's confidence with only the slightest hint of guilt.

He pranced at that. "That is all that matters in the end. The rest is mere formality."

She felt a flash of irritability. "You would not steal her away from her family, would you?"

"Elopement and abduction are time-honoured traditions of the Mark, Princess. Back in the old days, it was the only acceptable way to obtain a wife."

"Not in Gondor, not today, not with my friend," said Lothíriel.

He halted the brush and whistled softly. "Easy, girl." For a moment she thought he was talking to Firefoot, but then she realised Éothain would not address the stallion as _girl_ , and his hand was on her shoulder. She followed his gaze and noticed she was clutching the pick so that her lower arm shook with the effort. She observed it with detached interest, then unclenched her fists and exhaled with a sigh. Éothain eyed her with some curiosity. "I spoke in jest. There will be no stealing," he said.

She nodded and sat back on the grass, her heart beating queerly in her chest. "Of course Raissel's feelings are what matters in the end, and it does you credit that you should think so," she spoke pensively, as she recovered herself. "But Raissel is a lady of the court, and she is very popular." Indeed, the combination of Raissel's beauty and unassuming temperament made her altogether dazzling, and she had always attracted willing champions wherever she went. Sometimes Lothíriel envied her friend a great deal. "Her parents will not be glad to see her go to someone unable to offer her a position and a stable home. You will need lands, Éothain, and dependents of your own. I think that might be enough. Raissel's parents love and trust her, and were in Minas Tirith during the siege, so they will want to look on your suit with favour for her sake and the debt we owe you. And in a way," she added grimly, "you benefit from my countrymen's prejudice, as your lack of noble birth becomes a moot point in the eyes of all who consider the Rohirrim barbaric by default. Indeed, most of them are already convinced you are a nobleman because of your position in the King's household – no merit would raise a farmboy in Gondor that high. But you will need some lands for Raissel to run, and you will not have her for less."

"I see."

"I hope I did not offend you," said Lothíriel, now using the hoof pick to get at the dirt under her own nails.

"On the contrary, my lady" said Éothain. "I asked for your advice, and you spoke plainly. I could not ask for more."

He looked at her with such approval that she broke into a grin. "I hope you know this match is a personal favourite of mine, and I will do what I can to help bring it about! Even if I have to invade Rohan and carve you out a piece of it myself. There is so much wilderness and grassland, I'm sure King Éomer would not even notice it is gone."

He laughed and threw her a spare grooming cloth, so that they might polish Firefoot to perfection. "Do you think Raissel will like Rohan?"

"I think she will do very well there. She'd probably adjust much faster than I would."

"What makes you say that?"

Her cheeks grew warm and she mumbled something along the lines of princesses being forced to do manual labour that was not even halfway clever.

For a while they worked in silence, as the sun climbed higher and spurred the late sleepers out of their beds. Then Éothain pronounced himself satisfied, and they left the horses to graze, while Éothain cleaned the tools, and Lothíriel bounced rocks off the river.

"I promised to write her," he said then.

"Of course you must write," said Lothíriel. "Love letters are vital to the courting process."

He gave her a pensive look. "It was a foolhardy promise, and it will be difficult to keep my word."

"How so? You are not that busy. I am not blind; it seems to me half of your job consists of late night drinking sessions with King Éomer."

"They take a lot out of a man, I'll have you know," jested Éothain. "But I was talking of another difficulty."

Lothíriel studied him, then breathed in sharply as it came to her. "You cannot write! Of course, the Rohirrim don't write, do they? Oh no, that won't do at all."

"Many know the trick, they just don't care for it. I can write some," said Éothain brusquely.

"You can?"

"I can write my name."

She burst out laughing. "A promising start for a romantic letter."

He looked vexed now, and Lothíriel realised just how vulnerable this captain of the Horselords had made himself with his confessions, and she loved him more for it. She threw an arm around him, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him on the cheek. To her amusement, he looked around furtively, as if worried someone might have seen them. "I will help you! We can draft a letter together in Dol Amroth and explain the situation. And you should find yourself a writing teacher when you are back in Rohan. You must learn anyway if we are to pass you off as a nobleman. I am sure you would pick it up in no time at all. Meanwhile, just be romantic. Send her dried flowers or something. Oh, and I have a book of poetry I shall give you, all verses of love and summer and such; you could copy them."

Éothain groaned.

She poked him in the chest. "If you want to marry Raissel, you cannot groan at love poetry."

Éothain conceded that point.

"Thank you, Princess."

"It is good to have allies in these matters," said Lothíriel.

They rode a shorter distance than planned that day, for the weather was foul and the crossing was difficult, and Lothíriel hid under her cloak while the men set up camp. Although the rain abated somewhat as evening fell, there was a persistent drizzle that made many seek their tents and bedrolls early. Not so Lothíriel – who actually quite enjoyed this sort of weather -, nor Éomer, and while the moon rose high in the night sky, they found themselves sitting by one of the fires together, alone for the first time in days. Lothíriel waited for him to speak, and wondered if he would.

She had ridden near him for much of the past two days, and while he had continued his intense scrutiny of her person, he let Éothain do most of the talking. He would sometimes laugh at their banter, but other times he seemed disinterested, stoic even. On one occasion he had frowned and exchanged some terse words in Rohirric with his captain, after which Éothain had politely excused himself for the next half hour. Lothíriel had been bewildered by this display of rudeness. She was unsure what exactly had displeased the king: they had been talking of Dol Amroth, and she had just shared a rather risqué riddle that the swan knights used to tease foreign visitors, but it was nothing compared to some of the other things that had been said that day. Lothíriel remembered Hethlil and how easily she had conversed with the king of Rohan on a wide range of topics. Why was he often so reticent with her? If he found her attractive, why did her company seem to turn him so dour? Perhaps, she thought, she was getting it backwards and men did just not enjoy the thought of bedding women they actually liked and respected. Rhanaer had not liked her, or at least not respected her, but had certainly kissed her with copious enthusiasm. She had thought that strange at the time – how could one contemplate such intimacy without friendship – but perhaps it was altogether awkward for men to mount the same person with whom they had had a scholarly debate a moment before. It would explain why so many men preferred to keep women relatively ignorant. She grinned and was about to raise the question when she remembered –just in time- to keep her mouth shut. She was becoming far too comfortable in Éomer's presence, and she felt the blood rushing to her cheeks and struggled not to laugh at herself, managing to turn an irrepressible giggle into a strangled hiccup of sorts. Then she filed away the thought to share with Amrothos later on.

When she had recovered herself, she found Éomer was now staring at her. He dragged his eyes over her, as if he could read all the secrets in her face, the length of her legs, her upturned toes. "You seem very happy to be going home, Lothi," he said at last.

"I am," said Lothíriel, relieved for a neutral topic of conversation. "I cannot believe I have been away for eighteen months now."

"So you miss it?"

"With all my heart. I have some dresses in my wardrobe there I have longed to wear for a year."

Éomer looked slack-jawed.

She laughed. "That was a jest." Although not entirely. It was perfectly possible to miss a favourite dress, although to try and explain this to a man like Éomer seemed a doomed endaevour. "I miss my brother, sister and nephews most of all. And my aunt. I never thought I would."

"I remember her," said Éomer with a vague grimace. "She is quite regal."

"Aye," laughed Lothíriel. "I wish I could be more like her. I never thought that would happen either."

"How so?"

Lothíriel bit her lip. She could not say how much she admired the way Ivriniel could get any lord to cower before her just by raising an eyebrow, or how she knew to manipulate every situation and even, at times, Imrahil himself. It'd be far too provocative. "Her skirts swish so charmingly when she walks," she said eventually with a careless jerk of her shoulder. "I never know how she manages that."

"She was never married, was she?"

"No, but she was engaged twice. My great grandfather arranged both matches, the first when she was very young, just after her coming out. I believe she loved him, she speaks fondly of him anyway, but he died of some illness a few months after their engagement. Prince Angelimir promised her to some lord of Lamedon later, a purely political match. My aunt met him once and did not like him, but she agreed to do her duty. He drowned at sea a few weeks before the wedding. She was offered to Lord Denethor next, but he chose my aunt Finduilas. I heard a rumour he was a little afraid of her." Lothíriel grinned. "She had quite a reputation by then. After that she just told my grandfather Adrahil that she was done with matchmaking and quite happy where she was. By that time my grandmother had fallen ill and Aunt Ivriniel had taken over much of the running of the castle. She had a talent for it and in a few short months had made herself indispensible, so my grandfather allowed her to stay. She has performed the same duties for my father all her life." Lothíriel swallowed. They were getting into dangerous waters and she grasped for something to steer them out. "In fact, if you have come to arrange a trade deal with Dol Amroth, it would probably be much more efficient to speak to her."

"I will keep that in mind."

Another awkward silence fell. Éomer cleared his throat. "What about your life at court? Will you miss your friends? You must feel at home in Minas Tirith now."

"Oh, maybe a little. I like my life in Minas Tirith, the people and all the friends I made," said Lothíriel. "But Dol Amroth will always be my home, and always the first and fairest place in the world to me."

"Always?"

"Of course."

"That seems a little strong."

"Does it? Is it not the same for you? You have travelled much further than I, and have seen so much, and will undoubtedly visit many places in your lifetime: kingdoms of elves and dwarves and all such wonderful things. A week from now you will be in my homeland and may judge its beauties with your own eyes. And then when you have seen the sea, and the western cliffs, and the Keep of the Swan Knights, I will not blame you for still believing Rohan to be best. You ought to grant me the same bias."

He inclined his head, and added some kindling to the embers of the fire. Even this simple task was executed in a graceful and determined manner, and his dark eyes glittered in the light of the flames.

Lothíriel wrapped her cloak more tightly around her, crossed and uncrossed her legs, then sighed deeply. When she was young in Dol Amroth, she used to play a game with the other children at her father's palace. It was simple, nothing more than story-telling. You'd start with 'When the war is over…' and then shared hopes and dreams and daring plans. None of the other children had been noble-born like her, and their wishes were generally modest and in Lothíriel's eyes uninventive. She, on the other hand, had taken great pleasure in coming up with the most outrageous schemes. 'When the war is over, I will marry' had never been one of hers; it was the sort of prosaic wish that empty-headed obscure serving girls would express.

The thing was that not one of them had truly believed there could ever be a world beyond the war, certainly not Lothíriel. That was why it was a game, and one should not answer something completely reasonable and commonplace such as 'I will get married'. And 'move away from my family'. And 'make some other man's house my own'. Yet here she was, in the world after. The world after that was turning out to be not some place of unattainable bliss, but just the world, full of hard choices and changes and consequences. Lothíriel stared into the dying fire and observed Éomer through her lashes, uncertain, somewhat nauseated – never afraid, of course not. "You seem very pensive tonight," she said at last. "What is on your mind?"

"Nothing in particular."

"I have something on my mind."

He turned to her and looked her directly in the eye, and Lothíriel's heart pounded.

"I have been thinking about you, actually," she said, her voice tight as she searched for the right words. "Your stay in Gondor is longer than expected. Can you afford to be away from Rohan for so long?"

He pressed his lips together. "Are you accusing me of neglicence?"

"No, it was not intended as a criticism," said Lothíriel, somewhat impatiently. "Éomer…"

She brushed her fingers against his knuckles but she felt him stiffen and pulled her hand away.

"Why are you so uncomfortable when I touch you?" asked Lothíriel with mounting frustration.

"You know very well why."

"I don't know why. It doesn't mean anything. I touch my brothers all the time." She bit her lip; that had not come out right at all.

"Do not be naïve, Lothi."

It was always very aggravating to Lothíriel to be called naïve when it seemed to be the world's mission to keep her so and thus she did not dignify that with a response.

"You cannot just do these things and expect…" he trailed off. "We cannot do that."

"Very well," said Lothíriel, not wanting to argue. "We can just talk." Absentmindedly she rubbed and stretched the muscles in her legs, exhaling in relief at the warmth and pressure of her own hands – she was still so very sore and it was cold – and Éomer abruptly rose to his feet.

"I have kept you up too long. You should get some rest, Lothíriel. We have a long way to go again tomorrow."

He walked away and Lothíriel balled her fists in frustration and dug them deep into her thighs.

oOo

They turned south towards the great river the next day. Still a little bothered by Éomer's behaviour, Lothíriel rode with her father. She had felt her father's eyes on her a lot over the past two days, sometimes in exasperation and sometimes in disapproval, and she knew it was high time to smooth things over and soften him up a little. He could be so authoritative and unyielding in recent months. Yet today he appeared in good humour and chatted to her without strain or censure. She loved to hear him talk like this, of his plans and hopes, and of King Elessar's unconventional council sessions (Imrahil loved his new king very much, but sometimes being the king's right hand man seemed to involve a lot of damage control). An hour after dinner, they finally rode out of the woods, came over the hill and there the estuary of the great Anduin sprawled at their feet and for the first time in what felt like forever, Lothíriel could smell the sea. White sails appeared on the horizon, large and looming as morning mist, and then the prow of a great ship, carved in the shape of swan.

"Lothíriel! Look, daughter. It is our flagship."

Imrahil laughed, suddenly looking very much like Amrothos, and galloped down to the riverbank, dark and silver hair flying in the breeze. Lothíriel smiled at the sight, then chased after her father.

"It's a really nice-looking boat, Ada." Lothíriel loved the sea for its tides, its promise of vastness and adventure, but she was not a sailor. Dol Amroth had no harbour of its own, and for most of her life she had been banned from all but the sheltered reefs of their home and the small, winding rivers that cut through the hills near their summer palace. The swan knights were all she knew. Besides, ships were wood and iron and sails, whereas horses were life and blood.

"A _nice-looking boat_!" her father exclaimed with mock-horror. "What have I done to deserve such irreverence?"

"What is she called?" asked Lothíriel.

" _Gil-en-Aear._ The Star of the Sea."

"Very lofty."

Then a cry came from the deck and a man in the colours of Dol Amroth leaned over the balustrade. "My lord! At last we have found you!"

oOo

Half an hour later, Lothíriel sat quietly in the corner of her father's pavilion, heart pounding in her chest. There had been two corsair raids in the lands of the Prince, perhaps even three, as panic and rumours spread fast. And not in the coastal towns, but inland, far from the rivers and the seas, as far north as Lad Gruin, not a day's ride from Dol Amroth. It was unheard of. There were few safe landing places along the coast of Belfalas, and Dol Amroth, high on the cliffs and hidden by currents and riptides, could only be reached overland. It had been a safe haven for many years, untouchable, unassailable. Her father's features were grim, and Éomer already had a hand on his sword.

"The damages are small, so far. A few dead; some injured. More shaken. Mostly cattle lost. Some of the villagers claim orcs fought with the Corsairs, but the swan knights did not find any, nor evidence of their presence."

"Orcs!" exclaimed Hinnor. "No orc has set foot in Belfalas for a thousand years or more."

"Panic…" said Imrahil pensively. "Or mummery. Most men and women there have never seen an orc; they could be fooled. Did we manage to take anyone in for questioning?"

"None, my lord. They disappeared as fast as they came. Those we hunted down were killed."

"As in Ithilien," muttered Hinnor.

Her father ran a hand through his hair. "This is not a test of our borders. They do not need to meet us in battle if we tear ourselves apart."

"You mean Húron." Hinnor spoke with a grimace. "Yes, I wonder what the old _narchor_ makes of this."

Húron. Lord of Methrast in the south and one of her father's most powerful vassals. She did not know him well; he was brusque, cold-blooded, a warrior through and through. His brother, Lord Glirion, she knew a little better, as softhearted and soft-minded as his brother was ruthless.

The Lord of Methrast had not been at Cormallen, or the King's coronation. He had declined an invitation to the council as well on account of the storm season. He had come to the Midsummer celebrations in Minas Tirith, though. He insisted on fish and ale for breakfast. His sigil was a tiger shark and his colours were green and grey like the sea. He had been married, but his wife had been killed in a raid but a few weeks before the end of the war. That was about the extent of Lothíriel's knowledge.

"What are Elphir's movements?"

"Your son is riding south, my lord."

"Good lad," said Hinnor. "Although, Imrahil, Húron may refuse to speak to Elphir. You know what kind of man he is."

"I do," her father sighed, then turned to the King of Rohan. "Éomer, I am afraid this has a long and complex history and I do not have the time to acquaint you with all the details. I must sail for Methrast at once."

"I will come with you," cut in Éomer. "I do not need to know the details. I would be honoured to help you defend your lands."

Her father looked pained. "Not this time, my friend. Your offer is well-taken, but there is neither room nor supplies on the ship for your men and your horses."

"My men may ride on without me. I will stand with you."

"Your advisors would not like it, Éomer, and you are ill-equipped for warfare on the water if we run into trouble. And for now this is a mission of diplomacy rather than war."

Éomer's face drew into a grimace; the King of Rohan was not used to being told no. Lothíriel doubted if he would have accepted it of anyone but her father. "What then may I do for you? You cannot expect me to stand idly by and continue this pleasure jaunt."

"Ride to Minas Tirith, if you will, and inform King Elessar of what passed here today. I will join you there as soon as I can, two weeks, no more. The situation has escalated far more than I thought. The King must reconsider…" he did not finish the sentence, just glanced down at the map in front of him.

"I will."

Imrahil hesitated. "There is something else I would ask you."

"Anything."

"I must trust Lothíriel and Maeneth to your guardianship. Please, take them with you, at least for part of the way. I know you will wish to travel faster than they are able, but you will pass Lôvaran by sundown tomorrow, and the lord of that castle, Thannor, is a friend and ally to our house. Lothíriel will be safe there and they can arrange an escort for her the rest of the way to Minas Tirith, so you would not be slowed down."

Lothíriel rose to her feet faster than a spring from a coil. "Father, no! I would come with you."

"You know you can't."

"But I want to go home! And I want to help you."

"Not like this, Lothíriel. It is too dangerous."

"I have not been home for eighteen months; I have not seen Elphir, my nephews… Please, Ada."

"This is not the time, Lothíriel," her father repeated calmly.

She thought quickly. "Then I could go to Pelargir, where Amrothos is. And when Mettarë comes, I could sail home with him."

"No."

"It would hardly be a detour at all."

"No. You can celebrate in Dol Amroth next year."

"Next year!" she exclaimed with dismay.

"I am not arguing this point with you now. The decision is made; please wait outside. Éomer, I know it is much to ask…"

"Of course, I will keep her safe," vowed Éomer. "It would be my honour – "

"King Éomer could be rid of me and Maeneth by tonight if we ride for Pelargir," cut in Lothíriel, before the king could say something gallant about what a precious inconvenience she was. "Let me go to Amrothos, Ada."

"I said no."

"But why? Why send me to Lord Thannor when I am less than half a day away from my own brother?"

There was a small frown on Imrahil's brow, the only hint that he was losing his patience. "Come, Lothíriel."

"But this is just silly!"

"Lothíriel, I have no desire for a public scene. We can talk about this later."

"No, tell me why."

"Because I do not trust you with Amrothos," her father's voice was sharp as a whip.

She could barely speak as the frustration fled out of her and her body collapsed in on itself. "What?"

"Your reputation has suffered, Lothíriel – do not believe me ignorant of that. At first I did not credit the rumours; after all, women with your looks and station will always inspire envy in some and in these type of battles gossip is a classic weapon. Yet I have watched you closely over the last weeks, and I have seen some things that concern me greatly."

"I have done nothing!"

"Don't lie to me."

"Ada, come on, please. I have done nothing _serious_. Why are you so upset?"

"You are not a child anymore, Lothíriel, you are a princess, the Queen's favourite no less. There is a difference between a little girl with an affectionate nature and a young woman who eschews modesty. All eyes are on you and yet you insist on flaunting the rules."

"The rules are changing. You have said so too."

"The rules are the rules, and you ought to be twice as careful. So no, you are not going to spend a month gallivanting in a harbour town under the guardianship of Amrothos! Those are my reasons, and now you will wait outside!"

Dizzy with humiliation, Lothíriel left the pavilion and leaned against the canvas.

"I am in your debt, my friend. More than I can possibly say," she heard her father say to Éomer, who had of course heard every word.

oOo

Her father's supplies were brought aboard _Gil-en-Aear_ with deft speed, and hasty farewells were exchanged in the now subdued camp. Lothíriel sat a little away from the bustle gazing down the river into the west. The sky was overcast and the wind was chilly, but she barely felt it. Only when a silver trumpet blew, announcing the ship was ready for departure, did she get to her feet. Her father was about to board when he saw her. With a brief gesture he called a halt to proceedings, walked towards her, and took her apart from the crowd.

"Dearest."

"Farewell, father," said Lothíriel stiffly.

He eyed her with a sigh. "Lothíriel, I hope you will heed me, even though you think me tyrannical and priggish now. You forced me to say more than I wanted, and I regret the timing, but do not let that blind you."

Then he bade her farewell. She wanted to fall into his arms, tell him just how much she loved him, how much it hurt and terrified her to part on such bitter terms, but she was tired of always being the one to apologise and humble herself. So she stood still and formal as he gave her a kiss goodbye, and did not say another word.

King Éomer turned them north, away from the Anduin, in the direction of Lôvaran. Their pace was more frantic than before, but it was late in the day and they halted at sundown. Lothíriel wandered around aimlessly as they set up camp, feeling suddenly a stranger among the men whom she had considered friends but a few hours ago. They spoke in low and rapid Rohirric, and there was a threat to their songs.

Lothíriel did not say much during supper, nor were there many attempts to engage her in conversation. Éothain sat down and spoke to her a while, but he was soon needed elsewhere. The éored seemed restless, and many things that usually ran smoothly met with some trouble that night. None of these men liked riding away from a battle. At long last the camp grew quieter, and Lothíriel waited and waited until she and Éomer found themselves alone at the fire once more.

"I've been looking forward to going home so very much," she said after a few moments, her voice smaller than she would have liked. "I like Minas Tirith well enough, but there is no place in Middle-Earth like Dol Amroth. And my Aunt, my brother, my nephew – I have not seen them for more than a year."

Éomer looked at her but did not respond.

"I was there all my life, and now I feel as if I am banished."

Éomer still did not speak; refused to be her confidant. He just stared into the flames.

"I do not understand why he must shelter me so. He can never see me as other than a child. Or a determined flirt, I suppose."

"Your father is right," said the king at last.

He might as well have struck her, her cheeks felt so heated. "Oh, I am sure you think so," lashed out Lothíriel. "Did you have a good chat with him about Rhanaer? Did you mention that night in your sister's chamber too? The dance?"

He gave her a dark look. "Best retire, Princess. We have a long ride tomorrow." Then he stalked off in the direction of his tent.

Lothíriel remained behind, stunned by his behaviour and coldness. Then she lay back and stared at the stars. What had she expected, really? She had _never_ been good enough to meet the lofty standards of Éomer-King. If he had developed feelings for her, her father all but calling her a floozy in front of him had probably shocked him right out of that strange dream. And in that moment Lothíriel felt so alone, and so desperate for Amrothos's company, that her mind suggested a plan that should never have formed. With a jolt she sat up and in mere minutes she worked through the details. She trembled and wrapped her arms around herself. But she was no coward.

oOo

She hurried to her tent to gather a small bag of supplies. Fortunately, Maeneth was a heavy sleeper and Lothíriel had no qualms about using a candle to light her way. She grabbed some jewels, a fresh change of clothes, a few biscuits and a water bottle. Now just to find her winter cloak… Ah, there it was. In her haste Lothíriel bumped into her maid's cot and let out a gasp of pain.

"My lady! What are you doing?"

"Nothing, Maeneth; I just had to relieve myself. Go back to sleep."

"Why are you packing a bag? Are you going somewhere?"

Double curses! Every excuse she could think of was worse than the truth. "I'm going to Pelargir," she said at last.

Maeneth immediately sat up in her bed. "But you can't!"

"Of course I can. It's a straight road to the river, there's a full moon, and if I ride fast, I can be there well before dawn."

"But my lady, your father…" began Maeneth. "It is not sensible, my lady; I cannot let you go."

"I did not ask for your opinion. Or your permission."

Her maid looked stricken and clutched at her blankets. Then she made to step out of her bed. "Let me ride with you, then. Please, my lady."

"No. You are too slow."

"Please." Maeneth bit her lip. "You cannot mean to leave me alone with these … men."

"Don't fuss. They are honourable men. You'll be quite safe."

"I would be disgraced!"

"Nonsense," said Lothíriel, stuffing another pair of leggings into her bag.

"Princess, please. Your father – I could not…"

"My father is not here." Lothíriel tapped her foot. "Go back to sleep, and you can pretend you never saw me."

"I couldn't…"

"Maeneth, I order you to go back to sleep and not say anything till dawn," she said in her most authoritative voice. "Indeed I am your lady and you owe me _some_ loyalty." Combined with Maeneth's fear of the Rohirrim, it just might work. She laced her boots with deft fingers. "Now hush."

Then she snuck back out of the tent.

* * *

 _Author's Notes:_

 _We celebrate Lucia in Sweden today, and the start of Yule / Christmastide, so it seemed like the right day to revive this story._

 _And yes, that means it is done. (A terrifying call to make, actually; perhaps some of you fellow writers will sympathise). Individual chapters still need polishing, but I can tell you now we are six chapters and mere weeks from the ending._

 _I have been revising some of the earlier chapters – nothing major, just language errors and such that I noted as I reread the story over the past few weeks – but since ffnet has been scrambling some of my documents during the uploading process, let me know if I just managed to make matters worse. For those of you who read but do not follow: I am going to update the icon of this story sometime soon as well; so remember that when you go looking for it._

 _This is another ridiculously long chapter, so I will give you a little time to read and catch up, but there will be more updates soon. :-)_

 _A big thank you to Certh and to Eldhoron for their expert Sindarin support._

 _A hug to the ladies at the Garden of Ithilien for everything._

 _Welcome to all new readers, and thank you so much to my older readers who have stuck around to see the finish line._

 _If you have any comments or thoughts, I'd be happy to hear from you. I have missed you all!_


	19. Badly Done

**Badly Done**

Éomer woke in the middle of the night to a scurry of footsteps and low, agitated voices. Almost without thinking he sat up in his cot and reached for one of the daggers tucked into his boots, then searched the darkness for his sword. Mere moments later, just as he felt the comforting shape of Gúthwinë's hilt under his fingers, the flap of his tent was pushed aside and the familiar shape of Éothain appeared in the doorway, carrying a torch. "Lord. Princess Lothíriel is gone."

The sensation of control fled. He felt as if he had stepped into a bucket of ice. "What?"

"The princess. She rode off on her own sometime after midnight."

His heart plummeted down all the way to his feet. _Rode off. On her own._ "How?" he managed after a while, hand clenched tightly around the hilt of the dagger.

Éothain rubbed his neck. "From what I gather, she told Deorwine that she had remembered Suldis was to go into heat tonight because of the full moon, and led her away from the rest of the horses. Deorwine reckoned she planned to leave her mare with the south guard, but Leof and Ulfric never saw her."

"You just _let_ her take her horse and ride off? For pity's sake, have we not guards for a reason?"

"No one knew her plans or saw her leave, Éomer. If her maid had not raised the alarm, we would not have found out until dawn."

"I am sorry, Lord," came Leof's panicked voice. "She must have snuck past us somehow."

 _Simpletons._ He was surrounded by simpletons. Éomer's head throbbed as he let the dagger slide back into his boot, got to his feet and put on his shirt, yanking at the fabric so that he could hear it rip. Then he took a deep breath and blew out slowly. Lothíriel had shown a keen interest in the Rangers' tricks while she was in Emyn Arnen, and he knew firsthand just how manipulative she could be when she cared. Besides, who would have been on guard for this? _He should have been._ "Where is she headed? Do we know?"

"To Prince Amrothos, in Pelargir, according to her maid," said Éothain.

Of course. Had she not begged and pleaded to be left with her brother instead of him? Yet to ride off like this, on her own, without a care for the consequences of such willful disobedience or the dangers of the wild! A new rush of fury coursed through him, and then fear; both feelings he could ill afford. He remembered his promise to Imrahil and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment while he reined in his emotions. "Her maid is yet here?"

"Yes, Lord. She is very frightened."

"Send her in."

The woman was his age, perhaps a few years older; the men and women of Gondor always looked younger than their years. Dark hair, of course, and fawn-coloured skin, not quite as brown as Lothíriel's. She trembled and her round eyes darted back and forth as he questioned her.

"When did she leave?"

"I am not sure, my lord. I woke to find her gone."

"You say she took some jewels and a change of clothes, and yet you slept through it?"

The maid licked her lips. "She must have been very quiet. I suspect she has gone to see Prince Amrothos. She always misses him terribly."

Even had he not been Rohirrim and Éomer Éadig, he would have detected the falseness in her countenance. "You lie."

She blanched. "My lord, I could not…"

"The truth, madam!" he barked. "When did she leave and where has she gone?"

"I woke as she left," burst out the maid, Maeneth he recalled now. "She said she was riding for Pelargir, but she made me swear not to tell. I did not know what to do, but I couldn't… I couldn't…" Her words dissolved into sobs.

Éomer might have wished to unleash his temper on her – how dare she attempt to lie to him or even consider respecting Lothíriel's wishes over his or her liege lord's! - but as he took in her terror and distress he found he could not. A meek little mouse, surrounded by strange men. Thoughtless Lothíriel to force her in that position! "You did right to alert us," he said when he found control of his voice. "No man or woman should be forced to keep an oath they did not make in good conscience. How long ago did she leave?"

"I don't know, my lord. Three hours? Perhaps four?"

Then he did curse in earnest; he could not help it. Lothíriel would be well on her way then, and he knew he had little hope of catching up to her. She'd be fast, light and nimble on her light and nimble horse, and he was a stranger in these lands. Of course, Lothíriel knew the area no better than he did. She would seek the straightest path back to the river, and follow it down. If she had any sense at all.

She had no sense at all.

He had to find her as fast as he could.

He turned to Éothain. "I must go after her. There can be no delays. I will ride out; Imrahil entrusted her to me."

He was expecting an argument, but none came. Éothain handed him his cloak. "What if Pelargir is not where she is headed?"

He thought quickly: was Lothíriel wily enough to misdirect them? Would she head for Minas Tirith instead – or Béma save her, ride straight for Dol Amroth? He did not think so, but should he count on it? "Where else would she go? Éothain, you will join me, and Leof and Deorwine I think. We will send tracking parties west and east as well, just to be sure." She may have escaped unnoticed, but he guessed she was not skilled or patient enough to avoid leaving a trail, and the night was bright and cold, and all she had on them was speed.

"Perhaps we should send a courier to Prince Amrothos in Pelargir?"

He could. He could raise the alarm in Gondor… His pride warred with his panic; he must keep Lothíriel safe at all costs, but the Prince was not without his enemies and if it became known his beloved daughter was alone without protection… "I will take the shortest road to Pelargir. We may catch up to Lothíriel, and otherwise I would rather her brother hear the news from me. We can together figure out the next step." He hoped it would not come to that. The mere thought of confessing his failure was unbearable.

He threw on his cloak in a hurry and strapped his sword to his back, all the while cursing Lothíriel, and cursing himself for his complacence in the face of her brooding defiance. Could he have prevented this if he had talked to her? Yet what could he have said? The truth was that he just did not know _how_ to talk to Lothíriel – had never known how to talk to her without feeling wrong-footed and all too self-aware. He had not even been able to ask her straight out how she felt about him, or how she would feel about making the Riddermark her home. In his defense, it was impossible to bring up as a theoretical question (he had tried) and he knew that once asked plainly, he could never take it back. He would have had to see it through and marry her… But, he thought, rubbing his eyes and throwing some water in his face, that was not the real reason he had avoided the conversation. In truth, he had feared her scorn. After all, it was not as if she was blind to his intentions. A less self-assured woman might have been too modest or innocent to recognise his attraction for what it was, but Lothíriel had revelled in his attentions with shameless glee. Yet all she talked of was her excitement over returning to Dol Amroth, and every remark about her home (wonderful), her family (wonderful), the warm weather (wonderful), the sea (wonderful) had felt like an anvil, a direct challenge, a _don't you dare ask for my hand._ And then last night, when she had sought him out only to tell him how she wanted to be with anyone but him, disappointing him with her self-centredness in the face of the her father's crisis, he had not been able to find it in himself to comfort her. He had known she was hurting, but she had rather broken his heart. Their banter of the past weeks might have meant nothing to Lothíriel, but it had meant a great deal to him.

He had not known she would run off. That she would do something so ill-advised, and reckless and choose to inflict such torture on him that he could just … There were no words he knew in the common tongue that adequately described how he felt about the princess at this moment, but there were some in Rohirric and he had no qualms about letting them out as he laced up his boots.

oOo

A vicious wind whipped over the hills. The skies were mercifully clear, but the autumn leaves on the trees still hung heavy with rain and in the light of the moon they shone silver and bronze. Éomer felt light, almost surreal without his usual mail, but the absence of the weight gave flight to Firefoot's feet, even in this strange terrain that was no longer so strange after six weeks in Emyn Arnen. Firefoot's exuberance was tangible, in his fluid motion, in the ripples of his muscles as he sped through the wooded hills, stretching his legs and testing his limits for the first time in more than a year. At least one of them was happy. The trail was clear – more mercy. Lothíriel had abandoned any pretense at stealth after a hundred yards or so, counting on her ability to outride his éored, which was presumptuous and typically conceited, but unfortunately probably correct.

And thus Éomer had been prepared for a hopeless chase, for hours of riding through the dark with no sign of Lothíriel. She had a considerable head start, she was a fearless rider and Suldis was fast even if she did not have the raw power and stamina of a horse bred for war. He had hope, of course, but the half hour he spent chasing through the wilds felt much like days; and some of the very worst days of his life. So when they found her, just five miles south of their camp, sitting in the middle of a glade, hugging her knees to her chest, face drawn and bewildered, his first words were a murmured thanks to his fortune, to the full moon, and to Béma, the Great Hunter. And then his relief made way for dismay as he took in the scene in front of him. Lothíriel glanced at him briefly, her eyes resigned, and then looked away. Her sleeve was torn, but Éomer did not see that until later. He did not even notice the stain of blood on her shirt, for next to the princess lay her little palfrey Suldis, wide-eyed and foaming at the mouth.

Two broken legs. Nothing to be done.

His stomach roiled as he dismounted and crossed over to the pair of them. "Lothíriel. What did you do?"

Lothíriel wrapped her arms around Suldis's neck and tangled her hands in her mane. The mare nickered softly in response, even now calmed by the presence of her mistress. How long had they been here? It did not bear thinking about.

"What did you do?" Still the girl said nothing, and he felt his temper rise, the panic and relief he felt moments before twisting into fury. He dragged her to her feet and shook her. "Speak! What do you have to say for yourself, you perverse little fool!"

"We fell. I don't know what happened," came the dull answer at last.

"Were you attacked? Did something spook Suldis?"

"No."

"Then tell me the truth of it! Or are you craven as well stupid?"

She went rigid at that and her arm felt icy cold, and for a moment he feared she had gone into shock. But then she looked at him and her expression was calm, almost impassive. So like her father, he thought, just for a moment, before he followed the direction of her outstretched hand. "That ditch, over there. I have not ridden her astride in so long – Suldis must have been confused… and then we fell."

"You were riding for your brother."

"Yes."

"You set a mad pace that you neither have the skill or control for out of spite, or pique, or whatever petty sense of injustice you've been harbouring."

She opened her mouth to protest. "That is…"

He did not let her finish. "Are you hurt?"

Her eyes slid almost involuntarily towards where he was still squeezing her upper arm, and with a curse he let her go. She staggered backwards, but almost immediately found her footing. "Éomer – listen. I did not mean for this to happen; I did not mean for anyone to get hurt; I..."

"I don't need to hear your excuses now."

"But you must see! I had to do it. To show father that he need not shelter me, that I am grown, that I am as capable of making my own choices as Amrothos is. All I wanted was to help him and go home!"

"And all you did is show yourself a child. To help your liege lord is to follow his orders! You failed this, and what more you have caused me a delay. This little detour has made sure I will not reach Mundburg today, or even tomorrow."

She raised an eyebrow, provokingly unfazed.

"Delays lose wars, Princess. Do you have any idea where you would be now if we had arrived at the Pelennor Fields but hours later? Your father and your brothers would all be dead! Have you any idea how I would punish one of my riders for such an action? Your position allows you to walk away with your life, and relatively unharmed."

"Your sister…"

It was the worst thing she could have said. His rage consumed him then, and he grabbed hold of her again. "Don't you dare!" his voice shaking with anger, with other emotions long held in check. "Don't you dare compare yourself to my sister."

She met his eyes and whatever she saw in them shut her up at last.

Éomer took a few steadying breaths until he felt the raw edge of his temper ebb away. The unpleasant task ahead should not be tainted by anger. He closed his eyes and drew his sword.

"No," he heard Lothíriel whisper, almost without air, without sound.

"It must be done."

"She is fine," whispered Lothíriel. "She was thrashing and trying to stand, but I talked to her and she is fine."

"She is dying. Now move."

He lay his hands on Suldis's neck and murmured some nonsensical words to calm the filly. Next to him, Lothíriel sank through her knees and turned her face away. The timidity of the gesture filled him with a fresh fury; how dare she act the delicate princess now?

"Don't look away, Lothíriel. Her death is on you." Then he drove Gúthwinë into the mare's heart, the precise killing blow he had forced himself to execute many times before. Lothíriel stared, wide-eyed, and he heard her breathe in sharply, and yet as Suldis spirit fled her body, he saw her eyes remained dry, as if impervious to grief. But Éomer wept for Suldis, and closed her eyes and covered her body with a blanket, before ordering his men to gather rocks to mark her grave.

oOo

The horizon was streaked with orange and yellow by the time they mounted up to return to camp. Lothíriel had not said a word, and sat shivering against an alder tree, grey with cold. When he bade her come, however, she did.

After some deliberation he lifted her in the front of his saddle and swung himself up behind her. She was small enough, and though it would impede his movement a little, he could keep a better eye on her like this just in case she had another bout of senseless rebellion overtake her.

The result of course was that she was half sitting on his lap and he had to reach his arms around her to hold the reins. It was a very intimate position, and in spite of everything he felt his body's compulsory response to her nearness. He squirmed in his saddle and thought of Imrahil and Suldis, and the desire waned. Lothíriel appeared to him stoic. She did not weep; or protest; or even question the arrangement. Instead, she almost curled into his arms, seeking out his body heat and shelter from the winds. For a while he tried to lean away from her, but she was shivering so violently that at last he gave up, drew her against him and wrapped her in his cloak.

"What are you going to do with me?" she said when her teeth had stopped chattering and she had regained some of her colour.

"What I promised Imrahil. See you safely delivered to Lord Thannor."

She was silent for a while. "Will you tell my father what I did?"

He was not sure he ever could. The thought of having to share the sorry history with Imrahil, and the pain it would cause gave him no pleasure. His friend had entrusted him with his daughter – and he had failed utterly to protect her. That it was due to her intractability did not exonerate him. "You deserve a good hiding," was all he said.

She looked up to him with those beautiful grey eyes of hers. "You won't tell him, then."

Angered by her discernment and the assurance in her expression he snapped: "He deserves more from his daughter."

She blinked twice, then looked straight ahead. "That may be so," she said with a shrug.

"You do not care if you hurt him?"

"How can you ask me that? Of course I care. Almost more than anything in the world."

"You have a strange way of showing it. You could have died out there."

She gave a dismissive jerk of her shoulder. "I could die every day."

"Not while you're under my protection," he said through gritted teeth.

"That is a very bold promise," she said, the shadow of a grin on her features. "It would be romantic too if you were not so furious."

His head throbbed again. How could she be so calm? How could she be coy even now? "I thought you had changed, but all you've learned is vanity."

He felt her stiffen and her cheeks darkened with a deep blush. For a while she seemed speechless, then she began: "That is unfair – that is so –"

"Unfair. I heard you."

"Yes." She twisted to face him, and her glance was severe and her voice measured, even if she was still as red as he had ever seen her. "Smug and hypocritical and unfair." She paused. "All you do is stare at me. You rarely talk to me except to find fault. You don't know me. You don't know me at all."

He had nothing to say to that.

They reached the camp an hour later. His men's hails sounded subdued and they eyed the princess with veiled looks, but he could sense their relief, because many cared for her, like he did, and curse the woman. All looked ill-rested – his hope that this history would be known to none but a few was dashed immediately – but it was Firefoot who worried him most – he had ridden his friend hard and fast, and now he was carrying a double burden. They had little chance of reaching Lôvaran tonight without some respite.

"The horses need rest, and water. Three hours, then we will break camp and ride."

He lifted Lothíriel off his horse, and turned to Éothain. "Send a courier to Mundburg right away and have him inform Aragorn of the attacks in Imrahil's lands. There is no need to mention this incident, you hear? Tell Aragorn he may expect me late tomorrow night."

His orders had been given in Rohirric, and when he turned to Lothíriel he found her looking at the ground with a frown on her face.

"Come," he said, and led her to his tent. When he pushed her inside, she did protest and dug her heels in the sand like a stubborn mule.

"What are you going to do?"

"You've had a shock," he said curtly. "You need rest before we ride for Lord Thannor's castle."

"I have my own tent."

"Your maid is there. No need to offend her sensibilities. Sit."

She sat on his cot as if in a trance. Only now did he notice that her left sleeve was stained red, and that some blood had dried on her hands, and he cursed her again for not raising the alarm.

"You are hurt. Why did you not say anything?"

"It's just a cut," she shrugged.

He rolled up her sleeve and cleaned the wound; it was shallow, but quite long, running down most of her lower arm. She did not even flinch while he treated her, even if he was too annoyed to take care to be gentle and poured wine straight onto the wound to purge it, then bound it with clean cloth.

"I washed it out in the forest already. I tried to bind it too," said Lothíriel. "But I couldn't manage to tear the fabric."

"You should have used your knife."

"I don't have a knife."

He halted and then muttered under his breath. "You went alone into the wild without even a knife."

Lothíriel looked at him with some puzzlement. "There is peace in Gondor."

"There is peace in Gondor…" he repeated in disbelief. "You incredible fool. Come, get into bed."

She began to obey him, but when Éomer drew a length of rope out of his saddlebags, her eyes grew wide and she instantly divined his purpose. "Are you mad? You cannot mean to –" She flew to her feet.

"Lie down, Lothíriel. I would rather not use force, but I will if I must.

"How dare you!" she hissed. "This is barbaric!"

"You think I would risk you making a break for it again?"

"You can't do this! It's wrong; it's not proper, I…"

He gave another yank to tighten the knot. "You may be assured I won't take any liberties."

She laughed at him, a little hollow, perhaps. "You have tied me to your bed. I am not sure if it matters what liberties you take after this."

"Just go to sleep, Lothíriel," he bit at her.

"I will not run again, I promise, I couldn't," her voice was plaintive, almost wheedling now. Béma, the girl went through a million emotions per minute and was any of it real?

"You have given me no reason to trust you."

"Éomer, this is folly. I will not run away; I have nowhere to go and no means to get there. Besides, should you not rest as well?"

How did she get to pretend to be the reasonable one? "I am not tired. I'll be outside. Someone needs to watch over you and I would not saddle any of my men with that thankless task." It was his fault they were here in the first place. A sad mistake.

"If you are not tired, then stay and talk to me. I know you are upset with me, but you have to listen…"

"Do you never know when to stop? Shut your mouth, and go to sleep."

She stared at him and shook her head. "You can be so cold."

" _I,_ cold?" He looked at her calm face and dry eyes. "You claimed you loved Suldis, and yet you did not shed a tear for her even though she died because of you!"

Her features tightened, but she answered with a haughty tilt of her chin. "You would accuse _me_ of heartlessness when it was you who killed her? You took her away from me in front of my very eyes and now you want me to weep?"

"She was in pain. She had no chance."

"Queen Arwen might have saved her. Or the king."

"They are hundreds of miles away. Suldis would have suffered every minute, and even then there would have been nothing they could do."

"How do you know? You did not even take a proper look!"

"I have seen fractures like these a hundred times or more."

"You killed her," repeated Lothíriel. "And you want me to cry. What kind of morbid lunacy is that?"

He tapped his feet. "It was mercy. And it was you who killed her, Lothíriel."

She balled her fists, digging her nails into her palms as her arms shook, just for a moment. Then her grey eyes met his, ever so coolly. "I will never forgive you for it."

There was no anger in her voice, just sober condemnation, and Éomer found he no longer had the heart to defend himself. "Very well."

She muttered it again, in a low voice, "I will never forgive you." Then she lay down, turned over and within minutes her breathing calmed and she appeared to drift away. He left the tent, suddenly self-conscious about the blatant breach of propriety, dismissed his guards and sat down in the grass. And while Lothíriel slept the sleep of the righteous, Éomer stared into the distance for a long time.

* * *

 _Author's Notes:_

 _I thought for a long time whether I should post a warning at the start of this chapter. In the end, I chose not to for the sake of reading experience, and because (animal) death is such a part of the canon and this story has not shied away from the darker aspects of Middle-Earth. However, if anyone got hurt because I didn't (I mean, hurt beyond what is pleasant and right for a chapter like this), then I am very sorry and I made the wrong call. My PM box is open._

 _This chapter contains the very first lines I wrote for this story, back when the prequel "First Impressions" was not even supposed to happen. Although a lot has changed since, some of those lines never have. When Suldis first appeared in "First Impressions" and Lothíriel and I named her, I already knew her fate._

 _I should probably note that this chapter and all future chapters have gone unbeta-ed, mainly because I do not want anyone but myself to take responsibility for this ;-) However, if you notice any errors, please don't hesitate to note them for me. It's always appreciated._

 _Happy winter solstice to my readers in the northern hemisphere. On my latitude (very, very north), we are fighting our way through a 21-hour night just now. But you know what they say. When the night is darkest…_

 _PoemstheEarth, I have a posting schedule but due to travel and holiday celebrations, I might have to be a little flexible. Either way, from here on out, I will be updating roughly twice a week until the epilogue._

 _I won't leave you on this one for long._

 _Thank you to all my readers and reviewers; I am so grateful for all your comments!_


	20. A Most Mortifying Retrospect

**A Most Mortifying Retrospect**

On the first day of Yulemath, Éomer-King rode into Minas Tirith and alerted Aragorn to the problems in Belfalas. It was at this point not news to the King of Gondor, as Éomer's own man had arrived the day before, and since there was not much more Éomer could tell Aragorn, he felt both overdue and useless. It did not help that the cold had come to Mundburg, birdsong falling from crisp winter air, and the mountains were covered in snow. It made him miss home. Still, he would not hear of leaving while Gondor's borders might be under threat, and Imrahil had said he would return to the city as soon as he was able. So Éomer accepted Aragorn's invitation to take up residence in the King's house with as good a grace he could muster. After that, there was not much he could do but wait.

It was miserable. Éothain made a few attempts to discuss what had happened on the road, but Éomer was in no mood for his droll take on the situation and ignored him except on matters of business. Erchirion was stationed in Osgiliath, which was fortunate, because at least he was not expected to make an appearance at the Prince's house. Every day he dreaded Lothíriel's return, and every day she did not come and he felt relieved and disheartened all at once. Others did come; Legolas and Gimli arrived a few days after he did, and on the fourth day his sister came with Elboron, and the hearth was kindled in the Steward's House. He received a prompt invitation to leave the guest quarters in Merethrond to stay with her, if King Elessar would be kind enough to spare him. Apparently, Faramir had remained in Ithilien, as there were stirrings in the former Morgul Vale, so his sister had come to confer with the King and Imrahil instead. It was another task that would not likely have fallen on her in the Mark. To be sure, many of his countrywomen were fierce, prepared to take over their husband's tasks in times of war, even to the defense of the home, but to send a woman, a nursing mother, as a delegate in such a matter… Well.

Nonetheless, her arrival filled him with joy and he packed his few possessions as fast he could. He was weary of Legolas and Gimli's merry company; wearier still of the perceptive eyes of the Queen of Gondor. And if there was anyone he could talk to, surely it was his sister. Éowyn would know what to do. Éowyn would understand. So they sat in her solar, shared a carafe of mulled wine, and without much introduction Éomer told her of their journey south, Lothíriel's flight, and what came after, while Éowyn listened, interrupting him with questions at first, until gradually she grew quieter.

"You had to put down Suldis?"

He cleared his throat, because he had more confessions to make, confessions that in retrospect filled him with mortification. "I crossed the line, Éowyn. I told her to watch. And I laid hands on her. On Lothíriel."

"Oh, Éomer, tell me you didn't."

"I did. I mean. I did not strike her; I did not even intend to hurt her; I just gave her a good shake. Twice," he continued, desperate now to get it all out. "I also forced her to ride with me."

"Anything else?" she said after a moment.

"I tied her to my bed."

"You did _what?"_ She raised her hand to her mouth and it took a while before Éomer realised that she was fighting merriment rather than shock. "A little untimely, don't you think?"

Éomer buried his face in his hands. "Éowyn, tell me what to do."

She stopped laughing then, and sat down next to him and ran her hands through his hair, calming, soothing, and he let her. "What do you want me to say?" she said when he finally looked up.

"Tell me what you are thinking."

"In all honesty, I am sad for you both," said Éowyn. "Because I think I know how you feel about one another."

"Oh yes? She said she would hate me forever."

"And you? Éomer, are you in love with her?"

He threw his hands up in the air. "You ask me this _now_?"

She shrugged. "Before this I was rather sure that you were."

"And you never said anything?"

"Do not bore me with talk of marriage, sister," she intoned his own words back at him. "I let you choose your own match, and the least you can do is to grant me the same courtesy."

"I never expected you to keep that promise," said Éomer, almost accusatory. "You are my sister. You are supposed to pester me, whether I like it or not."

"Very well. So are you?"

Éomer groaned. "I am such a fool."

"That I know and did not ask."

With a sigh he leaned back in his seat, and dragged his eyes over the wooden panelling on the ceiling. "Yes, I am – I was – I am, maybe. Does it matter? How can I possibly allow myself to love her after all this? Besides, she … unsettles me. She vexes me more than any woman I have ever known – yes even you, you smirking demon. I don't know how to speak to her; and every time I think I have her figured out, she does or says something so unbelievably mad that I feel we are right back where we started. Is that what you want for me?"

"Éomer, I have always wanted for you to be happy. I don't think you will have a particularly tranquil life with Lothíriel, but perhaps that is not what you need."

Not _particularly_ tranquil, ha. "So, what do you think of her?"

"My opinion matters nothing if you love her."

"Of course your opinion matters," said Éomer with impatience. "Tell me what you think."

"Fine. She is self-assured and vain. Then again, so are you." He would say he was _proud_ not _vain,_ which was an entirely different thing, but he let it slide. "She makes me laugh, although she is a ditz. She is loyal and kind, surprisingly so, and intelligent in her own way. I like her. To be honest, she reminds me rather of you. If you had been born a woman."

"What?" burst out Éomer, provoked. "If I had been born a woman, I would have been like you."

That made her laugh, peals of laughter that lasted several beats longer than what he should rightfully have to put up with. "Very well, brother. If that is what you'd prefer to believe…"

"Come, Éowyn," growled Éomer. "The girl is an exhibitionist and a brat. We are not alike!"

"I see you were not after my opinion after all. Don't you feel for Lothíriel?"

"Why? Her father has spoiled her rotten, and her brothers are not much better. She is Arwen's favourite, even if she is the least deserving of her position, and you can be sure Hethlil and Raissel know it too."

Éowyn eyed him with curiosity. "You judge her harshly."

"She has everything. She has had every advantage in life. Much more than we had, Éowyn. Much more than you."

"But you are not blind to how overlooked she feels by her father, to how domineering and dismissive her brothers can be?"

He paused at that, remembering when he had felt so himself. Imrahil was almost casually negligent of Lothíriel at times – of course, he was a busy man - and Amrothos, although loving, made grateful use of her hero worship of him. In all fairness, she spoiled him a lot more than he her. "I am not," he said eventually. "I know that Imrahil is high-handed with her, and does not afford her the same autonomy and respect as her brothers. But Éowyn, she seems determined to behave in a way that proves him right."

His sister sighed and leaned back against the upholstery. "I will grant you that she did an extremely foolish thing. You had every right to be angry."

"What she did," he said, "is unforgiveable."

"Unforgiveable, hm?"

"She did not just run. She snuck away under false pretenses in the middle of the night. She disobeyed her father and liege lord in front of my men. There is no coming back from such an offence."

"You forgave _me_ ," said Éowyn. "And so did others."

Éomer looked up sharply. "Lothíriel made the same comparison."

"And you did not like that." Éowyn pushed her cup of wine back and forth between her hands, thoughtful, nervous perhaps.

"It was the one moment I almost wanted to strike her," he confessed. "Éowyn, there is no resemblance between these situations."

She raised her eyes to him, pale blue as the winter sky. "The circumstances were different. But that is not why you refuse the comparison, or why my wrongdoing was easier to forgive."

"Éowyn..."

As always, the subject hung between them like a spectre. They had not talked of it since the day of their uncle's funeral. Oh, of his sister's desire to take up arms, yes, of her defiant involvement in strategy and councils, sure, but not of what mattered, of the fact that she had ridden out with not a thought but to die.

"What do you think the stories would have said if I had died on those fields within the first minute? Or what had I lived but won no victories, and Dunharrow was attacked and lost? Both outcomes were plausible, and I should have been a tragic figure at best, a traitor and deserter at worst. What if Lothíriel during her nightly journey had come across a party of orcs on their way to raid Pelargir and slain them before the city could be caught unawares?"

For a moment, the image diverted him. "Not a chance. She did not even bring a knife."

"Alerted the city to their presence, then. What I mean is that we all have a tendency to evaluate the wisdom of a choice based on its outcome, even though this is not always fair."

"Éowyn, you saved us all."

"It is not why I rode. And you know that it is not."

"You are competent. You knew the risks. Yes, you did wrong by ignoring orders and abandoning a duty laid on you by the king, but…"

"Fate gave me a chance to do right, and I succeeded. That is the difference."

"You dismiss the circumstances too easily. The stakes here were low. Lothíriel rode not to war and glory, but to pleasure and frivolity."

"To the brother she loves."

"You are too generous."

"You are too hard."

Éomer rubbed the back of his head. "I did not think you would stand up for her."

Éowyn looked at him pensively for a moment, and blew a bubble in her wine. "I am not saying she did not do wrong. Yet it is beyond reason, what she lost to a momentary lapse in judgment. She loved Suldis as much as any rider has ever loved their horse."

He scoffed at that. "She seemed unaffected enough to me. She did not even cry! Not a single tear, the unnatural witch."

"That does not surprise me," said Éowyn with a grimace. "I remember at the midsummer celebrations she stepped into a shard of glass. The cut was half an inch deep at least, and yet she barely even winced and insisted on dancing every dance at the ball. Faramir told me she did not even cry at her mother's funeral."

His mouth fell open. "She did not cry for her mother?"

"You really do not know her very well, do you?"

"It is not natural," said Éomer pensively. It was not honourable either, to send off an ancestor without tears. "Éowyn, do you know what happened with Imrahil's wife? I have forgot her name, Míril? Even Erchirion rarely talks about it."

"Mírdis. That is not my story to tell. Either way, I know very little."

He searched her face. It was not like Éowyn to be deliberately evasive. "She passed away when Lothíriel was nine."

Éowyn drummed her fingers on the armrest and sighed. "Actually, she disappeared. Apparently they searched for her for months before they declared her dead; drowned in the bay, most likely. She was a very beautiful woman, and rather … strange from what I gather. Fey, and prone to pensive moods."

"So she was never found?"

"No. Faramir says it is certain she is dead; but I have heard rumours… Not everyone at court believed it."

"And what does Lothíriel believe?"

"You should ask her. But the rumours – they are unkind. They suggest Mírdis had a lover; perhaps several."

Éomer got to his feet and stared out the window at the gathering dusk. The glass was so transparent he could make out the watchmen lighting the lanterns along the wall. "Certain things are beginning to make sense to me now, in a way they did not before." Like Imrahil's uncharacteristic outburst on the banks of the Anduin, and his obviously heavy heart afterwards. For Éomer, Lothíriel's occasional kittenish behaviour with his men seemed no great matter. Her recklessness was worrisome (and he was –although it pained him to admit it- occasionally plagued by jealousy), but censure such as she received in Gondor would not have followed her to the Riddermark if she had come as his bride. In fact, as Lady of the Mead Hall, Lothíriel would have been expected to charm his riders, hear their boasts and incite or censor them when needed – one of the few tasks Éomer had never doubted she would perform with great aplomb and beyond the call of duty. As long as it would have been clear she was his, his men would never have touched her. He sighed, because she never would be his now.

"It is a shame you never got a chance to travel to Dol Amroth," came Éowyn's voice from behind. "From what Faramir told me, it is rather a queer place, and it might have helped you understand her better. We are so shaped by where we come from."

He turned and looked back at his sister. How had she grown so _knowing_?Had she always been this way? She looked so hale, so happy, golden hair framing her face flushed with wine. "You and Faramir, what you have is so harmonious. How do you do it?"

"Well, most of it is thanks to Faramir, and his absolute refusal to see my faults," said Éowyn with a smile. "Of course, that comes with issues too. You know our first months were not easy. But you are not Faramir. You've never been one to put women on a pedestal."

It sounded like a rebuke and he crossed his arms.

Éowyn laughed. "Yes, I will stand by that. You are not a gallant suitor. You never needed to be, with women buzzing around you like flies. To Lothíriel, to be wooed means flowers in her hair, and poetry and pining letters of the heart. You must be very puzzling to her. Then again, she never seemed to particularly care for Gondorian graces, and she puts up with your bluntness tolerably well."

"So you truly thought we were well-matched."

"I spoke of it with Faramir once or twice even before you arrived. He believed you would be well-matched; and Lothíriel had learned so much from Arwen. And from Gondor's perspective it is good politics; a way for the Mark to receive their due reparations without causing offence on either side of the border."

"I know. Aragorn has also hinted at it, although he at least attempted to be subtle."

"Well, who am I to gainsay my husband and my king? Besides, she reminded me of that little bedmate you once kept, Leofwen: pretty and sportive and rather more wit than wisdom. I was sure you would like her. Although for a while I thought you might choose Hethlil. I thought you might still be hung up on all the criteria you set before, and she fits them so exactly. Hethlil would have made a fine queen, but it never sat quite right with me."

"You know, I did not even think of it. I should have. She's beautiful, and clever, but I always thought of her as only a friend. I cannot quite put my finger on why."

"It is good to be friends with your wife. Indeed, that is more than many of us get. But I thought you would have a chance at love with Lothíriel, and politically it is the better match. Just think what we could do with that wealth! We would have enough gold to restore Helm's Deep and rebuild the Westmark."

The _we_ heartened him more than anything that had come before. His sister was still of the Mark at heart.

"But I would have Lothíriel too."

"And is that so terrible? You do love her."

He flinched, but he did not deny it. "You know what she is, and what it means to be queen of the Riddermark. Lothíriel has no idea how to put duty first."

"And you have always put duty first, wholeheartedly and without complaint?"

He paced around the room. "Of course I complain, but yes, I do what is right. The survival of the Mark, of the Eorlingas, and the line of Eorl – these are more important than my own desires. To rule means also to live in service. Our lives are not our own."

"And that is evidently a lesson Lothíriel still needs to learn. But she has never had to claim her position, not truly, and she is only nineteen years old. Can you not grant her that time?"

Éomer was silent for a few moments. It was easy to forget how young Lothíriel was, easier still to forget how he had been at that age. "It does not matter. I cannot wait for it. My duty is to the Mark, and I have delayed far too long. I will go home, and choose a bride from among our people." But not Elfhild, he thought. Someone sensible, and older, and balanced… someone like Hethlil.

"You would make a woman your wife while you love another?"

"That is not what matters here, Éowyn!" he said. "I cannot make Lothíriel queen. You do not know half of the stunts she pulled last year."

"Don't tell me that you indeed had to expel her from Edoras for lewd behavior."

"What?"

"A rumour at court."

"Ridiculous," he scoffed. "I should have expelled Amrothos first."

"Well, regardless of whatever stunt she did pull, you should not underestimate her skills, Éomer. She handled so much of the organisation for the council: correspondence, meals, entertainment, even the hiring and training of staff. I was so ill, and Faramir was busy with the defenses. Honestly, I would have been lost without her."

"Oh come. You had to almost beg her help and I saw her do little but play around all day."

His sister raised an eyebrow at him. "You are being deliberately ungenerous now. Besides, Lothíriel's desire for playtime in fact has left her efficient and skilled at delegation. She might do you good, you know."

Éomer snorted. "Do me good by signing over my responsibilities! Éowyn, don't be absurd."

"And she can work when it is necessary. She often worked all through the night during those last weeks. Cost me an absurd amount of candles, actually. I should send a bill to her father."

He was growing impatient. Could Éowyn not see he had made up his mind and forget about it? "If you pity her so, then think of this! As Queen of the Riddermark, there would be far less time for play and her life would be even more restricted than it already is."

Éowyn's grin dissipated and she gazed into the hearth. "I am afraid that is true," she said at last.

"It would not be fair to anyone."

"I am sorry, Éomer."

oOo

Lothíriel did not come the day after either. Éomer was up early, still mulling over his conversation with Éowyn, not sure if he felt better, or worse, or absolutely heartbroken.

He broke his fast with bread in wine and spent some time bent over his maps and accounts – a courier from Rohan had come with a report on the condition of the storages now that the hunting season was at an end – and concluded with some optimism they could survive a normal winter without aid from Gondor this year. See. He could do very well without fancy dowries. He just had to get home and not allow himself to be talked into any more sojourns in the south.

That was another reason why Lothíriel was a bad match. She was a distraction from his work, whereas a queen should be a support. He added the failing to the ever-growing mental list why wedding Lothíriel was a terrible idea.

He was just considering riding down to the encampment to see if Elric and Aldor had arrived yet when one of Éowyn's manservants announced that the Lady Hethlil of Pinnath Gelin had come to call, and if he should show her into the drawing room. The speech was delivered with a certain pique. For a moment he was tempted to provoke the man further and ask for Hethlil to be brought straight to the study, but he did not want to cause trouble for his sister or his friend.

"Please," he said instead. "And bring some tea, if you could."

And thus she was there when he came downstairs, finely dressed as always, hair intricately braided, studying Éowyn's mantelpiece with a furrowed brow. She smiled at him when he entered and curtsied, and he bowed in return.

"Hethlil. You have come."

"As you see."

"I was not sure if you would. I thought it might be deemed improper."

"You have learned our customs well," Hethlil smiled. "Improper indeed for a young woman to call upon an unmarried gentleman! Yet it is equally improper to scorn the invitation of a king – and a friend. You put me in quite a double-bind, my lord."

"And so you came."

"And so I did."

He had not expected less of her. Hethlil was almost painfully correct in her manner, but she was also honourable. "I hope it will not cause you trouble."

She fluttered her fingers. "The court is changing. The Queen is independent and natural in her manner, and King Elessar values qualities in his courtiers that we had almost forgotten. Of course, people are rather set in their ways."

"Lothíriel said something of the sort."

"Ah, Lothíriel. Yes, change cannot come fast enough for her. I should have known you would wish to talk about my friend."

He could not help himself: "She is not here, is she? She was expected days ago."

"Have you not heard? Lothíriel was taken ill on her arrival in Lôvaran and unable to travel."

"Ill!" Worry and guilt washed over him. Had he not bound her wound properly? Had she caught cold due to his negligence?

"I thought that was perhaps why you wished to speak to me. Do not fear – it is not serious. In fact, I have just had a letter from her and we are expecting her the day after tomorrow."

She held his gaze for a moment or two, some hidden judgment in her eyes that he could not quite make out. "Actually, I did not wish to talk about Lothíriel," said Éomer, turning away first and gesturing for her to sit. "I wish to talk about you."

"About me, my lord?"

"Please, Lady Hethlil, sit, if you will."

She sat down on the chaise lounge, an ornate wooden monstrosity that looked cold and uncomfortable. With the focus on the restoration of the estate in Ithilien, Faramir and Éowyn had not got around to changing some of the furnishings in the Steward's house. He remembered Éowyn complaining of that particular seat the day before, but Hethlil looked quite at ease.

He decided to be direct. "Explain to me, if we are friends, why you left Emyn Arnen without a proper farewell, and then out of the blue engaged yourself to Lord Awarthon, even though he is an old and weak man."

He studied her frown, and the way the corner of her mouth twitched; she disagreed then, and so violently that she was annoyed, although none of it showed in her voice. "I can explain it to you, if you wish to hear it."

"I do," said Éomer.

"Awarthon and I had talked of marriage a few times before, so out of the blue it was not, even though it may have seemed so to the rest of the world."

"Is that so? And what about you and I?"

Her face eased into a smile and she tapped her chin. "Ah. Yes, I thought we might suit. I knew you were attracted to Lothíriel, of course, but you were not close and I thought it might be just a fancy, although you spoke of her more often than I think you realised. At times you seemed quite captivated. However, I did not think Lothíriel cared much and that if there was a match there, it would have happened already for the love between you and Prince Imrahil. Well, I was blind. But that evening I realised how much regard Lothíriel had for you and how much she tried to impress you specifically, and then I knew I had to go. And as I said, Lord Awarthon had already implied he liked me, and since he was in the King's party when we returned to Minas Tirith, we had a chance to speak in private. I must apologise for my hurried departure, and for being ungracious when we said goodbye. I'm not used to being oblivious and I'm afraid I don't take it well when I am."

"I worried you might have been coerced."

She shook her head. "I entered the engagement of my own free will, and gladly, too."

"Yet you do not strike me as in love."

She shook her head slowly. "In love? No. To me, marriage is a partnership; a vow to work together and for each other until death, nothing more and nothing less. I am not romantic, but I value companionship and I desire to be useful. I have ambitions – a fault, perhaps – that I cannot realise as an unmarried maiden. And a child, I should very much like to have a child. Lord Awarthon understands this."

Her coolness irked him – he did not know why. "And yet to marry a man such as that! He is no warrior; he cannot defend you."

She was patient now, sipping her tea and placing her cup back on the saucer with a delicate hand. "You dislike him because he is not like the men you are used to. Yet he is kind, and learned, and holds to older lore: he believes that just because women incline a certain way in general, it is not strange when they do not; and that women can be in everything the equal of men and enjoy the same pursuits. He will let me be as I am."

"I don't understand. You speak like Éowyn, and yet you never struck me as similar. You do not share her interest in battle and warfare."

"I am not. You misunderstand me. It is a different freedom I am after."

"And you doubt you could have found that in Rohan? You think I would not have let you be as you are?"

She smiled then. "Not in the same way, my lord. Be assured that I do not blame you or think ill of you for it. Yet you would ask things of a wife that I could never give you – and for some of the things I want I would have to fight your pride every step of the way. Besides, you would never have made me an offer, whatever you may think now."

"What do you mean?"

"My lord, you know very well. Some of us will choose with our heads, and some with our hearts. It is not hard to guess which category of men you belong to. It is written all over your face."

"And you choose with your head?"

"I do not have the freedom to choose with my heart."

"Who is keeping you prisoner? Your king? Your queen?"

She hesitated. "Perhaps I have not the courage."

"What would your heart choose, Hethlil? If you had the courage? Because I am starting to think it is not me." He could not help sounding a little peeved.

"I would have been happy to work with you, my lord. Had circumstances been different."

"But there is a choice, in your heart?"

A pained look passed over her face. "Do not insist on asking questions you already know the answer to."

As often, she credited him with more insight than he had. He had no idea what the answer would be. He stared at her: her eyes clear and blue as the summer sky, alive with intelligence, her hair the deep red of dusk, of the woods of Ithilien under the spell of autumn. She was very beautiful. And she was right. He would never have offered for her in the end. The knowledge only intensified his heartache. "I know Amrothos likes you very much."

"Prince Amrothos!" It came out bitter, perhaps in spite of herself. Then, a little more fondly. "Hopeless."

"So it is not him?"

"Nay, my lord, I know better than that. One must be a glutton for punishment to give their heart to one of the scions of Dol Amroth."

"Is that an accusation?"

"An observation."

"You think me a fool for liking her."

"That's not what I said. She is difficult, although I suppose everyone is, in their own way."

"Every woman at least," murmured Éomer. "I thought you were friends."

"We are! I love Lothíriel very much. I was never surprised that you should like her. And I acknowledge that it is hard to keep one's eyes off her, because she is beautiful and there is always that morbid curiosity about whatever she will get up to next.

"Éowyn called her a ditz."

Hethlil laughed. "In some ways that is well-deserved."

"And in other ways?"

"Lothíriel likes to pretend she is more shallow than she is. She has her reasons." Hethlil turned pensive and let her fingers flutter against her cheek. "Do you remember Lady Glavriel? She asked to be introduced to your stallion."

"Yes. She is hard to forget," murmured Éomer, wondering at the change of topic.

"A few days ago I had a rather sad encounter with her. She had excused herself from the banquet early – I remember finding it curious, for it is usually hard to get rid off her at all. I found her crying in the corridor. She told me her father and younger brother had been dead two years exactly; do you know she lost them both in the war, on the same day?"

He felt uncomfortable, guilty almost. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't know. Perhaps just a whim. Perhaps… well, people are so much more than we see in our brief interactions with them. It is good to remember, every once in a while."

They said their farewells not long after.

* * *

 _Author's Notes:_

 _I think this is the most dialogue-heavy chapter I have ever written, but Éomer needed to talk. A lot._

 _-skip the next paragraph if you prefer to read the story without them being framed by authorial ramblings and origin stories-_

 _I understand the mixed responses to the last chapter, and was expecting them. When I first thought of this story, I had been reading a lot of Éomer / Lothíriel stories on this site in which two rather perfect heroes got into conflicts and fell out over issues that did not exist except for miscommunication and the machinations of outsiders (not that there is anything wrong with that – I love many of these stories - and I utilise these devices too because a romance with perfect communication may lead to happiness but also inevitably to dull storytelling). So my starting point was "objectively, what would be a truly terrible thing Lothíriel could do in the eyes of our King of the Horselords" and "can I make that work?" I built a whole storyworld, circumstances and motivations and such, around that, so there is no objectively anymore, but that was the starting point. Obviously it still will not work for everyone._

 _I know I have not yet responded to all your reviews, but I have been very busy and still wanted to give you an update before I disappear off the radar to celebrate with my family. Thank you very much for continuing to engage with the story, though! I know I repeat how much it means to me every time, but it really does. I love your feedback, both the (cordial) critical and the uncritical, so please don't hesitate to leave a comment. Meanwhile, happy holidays to you all._


	21. The Blush of Guilt

**The Blush of Guilt**

When guilt caught up with Lothíriel, she almost choked on it. After half a day and a night of loitering around Lord Thannor's estate, feeling lethargic and dull, Lothíriel was informed that it would take another day at least to get an escort ready because there was a hunt planned that almost all the men would attend. Lady Fareth, a kindly woman with brown hair streaked with grey, smiled at her over their breakfast porridge:

"We thought you might like to join my daughter and I for an outing this afternoon instead, Princess. The women are to follow the hunters and greet them with a picnic at the edge of the woods."

"Do join, it will be fun and the weather has been kind," said Feiril, a child of fifteen who had yet to be presented at court. "You are welcome to borrow a horse from our stables, since you lost your own."

Lothíriel felt the bile rising in her throat and was just capable of squeaking a quick "excuse me" before she rushed from the table and just outside the hall fell to her knees and threw up her breakfast. Lady Fareth and her daughter watched in shock, then quickly got her to her feet, patting and tittering, and with lots of "oh no" and "poor little dear" she was brought back to bed and declared "unwell".

When the door closed behind them and Lothíriel was left alone in the shaded room, she lay still and stared at the ceiling, wishing she could cry. Instead she threw up twice more during the night, and the next morning, a healer was sent for by a now greatly concerned Lady Fareth. The Healer examined her thoroughly, but could not find much wrong with her. He did discover the wound on her arm and bruises on her body, and frowned at her garbled tale of a fall, but since everything seemed to be healing quite well, there was not much else he could do. "Just fatigue after a harrowing journey," he concluded eventually. "Make sure she rests and drinks plenty."

Thus, Lothíriel spent another day and night abed on a diet of water with honey. She could not remember ever having been sick a day in her life, and found it lonely and miserable. With her stomach empty and the chamber dark, there was too much time to think, and she lay awake, sore and restless, until a grey dawn came and at last she fell asleep. She woke up feeling a little stronger in the early afternoon and asked for a hot bath. Maeneth came to wash and brush out her hair, and then in silence braided the curls as Lothíriel liked them.

Meanwhile, Lothíriel's mind was in turmoil, thoughts tumbling as wildly as a Haradrim acrobat. She stared at Maeneth's reflection over her shoulder. She stared at her feet. She tried the words in her head until she could no longer bear it. "Maeneth. I am sorry."

The maid paused her ministrations and then adopted a blank expression. "You are the Princess of Dol Amroth. You do not need to apologise."

Lothíriel turned around, clasped one of Maeneth's hands in hers and looked the maid straight in the eyes. She saw they were grey, like her own. She knew she had never taken the care to notice that before, and felt another twinge of guilt.

"I do. I do need to apologise. I was so very, very wrong and I caused you distress, and I am truly sorry."

Her maid looked uncomfortable at her outburst. "Very well, my lady."

"If you wish it, I shall relieve you from my service. You might go home, and be with your family. Or I could give you enough pay for a comfortable house, or to rent a farm if you wish."

Maeneth shook her head. "My lady, I have been in your family's service since I was a child. I know nothing of farming and my parents would assume some dishonour."

"Then please, next time just tell me I am being a fool and I swear I shall heed you."

Maeneth did not respond and continued her work, but Lothíriel thought she could feel a little warmth in her touch that had not been there before. Maybe. Or maybe some relationships were beyond fixing. Her stomach churned at the thought (but she did not throw up again).

It took some more days before she was able to convince Lord Thannor and Lady Fareth that she was able to manage the journey to Minas Tirith, and another day to arrange an escort. As she waited for the verdict, Feiril came to sit with her whenever she could, eager to hear about the fashions and feasts at the Queen's court and lamenting being too young to come out herself. Lothíriel indulged her with as much empathy as she could muster – sharing tidbits and gossip she thought Feiril would enjoy - and when Lady Fareth chided her daughter for "bothering the Princess" and chased her back to her studies, Lothíriel was a little sad to see her go. It had felt good to dust off some of the reasons she had once been longing to go to the White City herself. So, when the time came to leave at last, Lothíriel snuck into Feiril's room and left a diadem that she had seen the girl admire on her vanity table: one of the simple gold-plated bands that all the noble maidens in Minas Tirith had been wearing last summer but would be fashionable in the country for seasons to come. Then she thanked Lord Thannor and his wife with compliments and courtesy: their care and concern had been quite touching, even if Lothíriel suspected it was mostly motivated by fear of the political scandal should the Princess of Dol Amroth have taken a turn for the worse under their care.

Thus Lothíriel arrived in Minas Tirith almost ten days after Éomer had left her at Lôvaran. Her father had not yet returned, and all her brothers were stationed elsewhere, so she took up residence in her rooms in the King's house, which were hers to use when convenient while serving as Arwen's maiden of honour. Raissel and Hethlil were there also, and welcomed her home with kisses and inquiries after her health. To her surprise, neither of them asked much about her interrupted journey home, and whenever it seemed they might touch on the topic, Lothíriel quickly redirected the conversation. And so they sat and chatted and worked together as they had done for the past year. That morning the topic was Queen Berúthiel.

"Come, Raissel. It is just gossip. Do you honestly believe that she tortured and enslaved cats to be her _spies_? How would she talk to them?"

"Oh, I never found that very hard to believe," interjected Lothíriel. "But there is no dark power in Middle-Earth that could enslave a cat, I'm sure of it."

"What, Hethlil?" said Raissel, crossing her arms. "Why would the historians lie?"

"Because it was convenient to blame her for the failed marriage. Because she had a lot of influence and friends, and King Eärnil had to find a way to discredit her after his uncle's death. Because that is just what happens to powerful women in our annals."

"That can't be true. There are plenty of powerful women in our history whose deeds and characters are sketched much more favourably."

"Some, perhaps, although I would not say plenty," said Hethlil with a shrug. "It was good politics. And we know a woman's character is easily defamed."

"Speaking of gossips," said Raissel, turning to Lothíriel. "I heard Glavriel claim the other day that all your sports had given you the most unsightly muscular shoulders, and that all the men at the King's council found it grotesque."

"Raissel," said Hethlil, a sharp warning in her voice.

"Oh come," said Raissel. "Lothíriel knows it is nonsense."

"It can still be unkind to repeat it," came the soft voice of the Queen behind them. "Even if it is well-meant."

The girls rose to their feet, and Raissel's cheeks were flaming red. "My lady, I apologise. I wanted only for Lothíriel to be forewarned."

"No harm done," said Lothíriel quickly. "I just wish Glavriel would make up her mind. One day I am a heartbreaker and a flirt who carouses with every young man in the city, and now I repel everyone with my unfashionable shoulders. It is very puzzling. I have no idea how to improve myself now."

"Very well, Raissel," said the Queen. "But remember a lot of gossip is spread through good intentions and it can still do harm."

Raissel curtsied again, still blushing.

"Hethlil, Raissel, I was wondering if would you go down to the markets for me and see if you cannot find me a gossamer silk in a soft blue? Some merchants from Harad arrived yesterday, and I have heard they brought some very fine wares. Please take Padon and Telior as guards. They may carry your parcels too should you wish to use this opportunity to do some Yuletide shopping," she added with a smile.

The girls tittered with excitement, curtsied and left the room.

"May I go too, my lady?" asked Lothíriel, staring after them.

"Not today. Don't look so crestfallen, Lothíriel."

Lothíriel quickly controlled her expression. Not only did the thought of a shopping trip excite her, these kinds of jobs were among her favourites to perform for the queen, and Arwen knew this and usually reserved them for her. It felt as a punishment.

"I hoped we could spend some time together, you and I. You do not mind, do you?"

"Of course not," said Lothíriel, with mounting trepidation.

"Come, sit by me. You can help me with the linen for the babe. There is still a lot to be done."

Arwen opened the hope chest and Lothíriel dutifully picked up her needle and resumed embroidering the symbols of the King of Gondor and House Telcontar on one of the baby's blankets. Her needlework had improved much in the past year and as always her desire to please Arwen outweighed her dislike for the activity. Yet she hated it today, for the quiet and the repetitive motions allowed for far too much space to dwell on her wrongdoings. It made the Queen's presence, normally so wanted, almost unbearable. Arwen was so radiant with child, so pure and perfect. Then Arwen began to sing a soft elvish song in her enchanting voice, and Lothíriel almost cried. Almost – never truly.

"You are very quiet. I wonder, Lothíriel, if there is anything you want to tell me," said Arwen.

Just for a moment Lothíriel considered throwing herself on the Queen's mercy and kindness, and sob into her lap and be comforted and forgiven, but it was too much; she felt too flawed and inadequate.

"I worry for my father," she said eventually, and then a fresh wave of guilt swept over her as she caught herself in the lie. She had not been at all worried for her father. All she could think was Suldis and the burden of her terrible act. And Éomer. How he must despise her.

"Did you not hear? Your father is on his way back. He should be in the city late tonight, or tomorrow morning at the latest."

Lothíriel shook her head and looked to her feet, although she supposed she should not be surprised that her father had once again neglected to send her word.

"I should make sure the house is readied for him," she said. "May I be excused this afternoon?"

Arwen's eyes rested on her for a few moments longer, while Lothíriel squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, then said: "Of course, Lothíriel. Go to your father's house. We will see you at supper."

oOo

Lothíriel knew that Éomer was still in Minas Tirith. It had been clear from the moment she had arrived and had seen the Rohirric camp on the Pelennor. However, to her relief, she had discovered Éomer was staying at his sister's and although he was regularly at the King's House for some meeting or other, he took all his meals in the House of the Steward. With her brothers and father away, she could not very well have been expected to entertain or call on him (even if her father always insisted Éomer should be treated as family), and so he had been easy to avoid. Yet that afternoon, as she left the hall to go down to the Prince's house in the sixth circle, suddenly he was there, large as life. Their eyes met across the courtyard, and he inclined his head, briefly, before continuing his way and Lothíriel's heart skipped a beat.

She had tried to avoid him, yet now that they had seen one another not to try and speak to him seemed far, far worse. "Éomer," she called, lifting her skirts and hurrying after him.

She noted a hesitation in his step before he turned around and gave a short bow. "My lady."

The formality struck her hard but she quickly adjusted and curtsied in return. "My lord. I had heard you were still in Minas Tirith."

"As you see."

"I hope your stay is comfortable. I remember you did not think much of the city before, but Lord Gimli and his kin have been working very hard... You are staying with your sister, I understand." She cringed at how she sounded, a prattling dolt.

He did not bother to answer. "I will return to Rohan directly. Winter will be upon us, and my place is in Edoras."

"Are you leaving soon?"

"Tomorrow. We are to have one last council when your father returns. Then I must go."

"That is very soon!" she blurted. "I wanted to…" she hesitated, unsure what it was exactly that she wanted. His face turned impatient and he kept glancing behind her, as if he were a lover impatiently awaiting a suitor and she a boring relation who must be humoured. "Éomer..."

"You must forgive me, my lady. I cannot keep Aragorn waiting any longer." And with a perfunctory bow, the King of Rohan strode away to the keep.

The chill that had been creeping up her spine settled in her stomach like an unbearable, icy weight. Her steps seemed heavier now and she wrapped her arms around her chest to keep from shivering. She passed through the gate and stared out over the Pelennor, the cultivated farmlands and outlying pastures. A goshawk circled overhead then disappeared into the mist over the Anduin. It was not so bad, she told herself. Éomer had been polite to her. They would see each other again, and time and distance would mend their rift, as it had done before. She would be older and wiser, and so would he. Probably married. A wife could surely sort him out.

She tried to imagine overbearing, grim, blunt and generous Éomer, with all his moody ways, married. A Shieldmaiden, perhaps, with hair like golden wheat, blue eyes, tall and slender, or some lady of the Gondorian court, polished and refined like Hethlil. Her father would invite them both to Dol Amroth – it would be the right and polite thing to do – and she would greet them like a proper Princess, warm but distant, and this woman – this Queen, for that is what she would be – would stroll with Éomer in their gardens, and smile, and steal a kiss under their almond tree… No. No, no, no. It was impossible to imagine, and all wrong. Éomer, married! Lothíriel, unable to continue in good grace her flirtatious games! It could not be, and yet Lothíriel was under no illusions. Éomer would marry; he owed it to his people. And her father, for all his love for her, would not allow his daughter, his most precious commodity, his political trump card, to linger in Dol Amroth and grow into an old maid. She would marry, too, and that would be that. No more spats, no more dances, no more jokes and strange looks and misunderstandings. And then Lothíriel leaned over the city wall and admitted to herself what she had known for a while: Éomer should not be married to anyone but her.

Also, she really needed to talk to someone. And she thought she knew who it should be.

She left some instructions for the household staff (there was really very little to do, as most of their servants knew their lord and his preferences well), then sauntered up to her room, and changed out of her gown and into an old shirt and leggings. Then she made her way back down to the kitchens and shared her plan with the cook, who was amused and indulgent as always. It took longer than she thought it would, and waiting for the dough to rise was even more aggravating than needlework (the cook good-humouredly suggested she scrub some pots to kill the time, but that was taking it a little too far).

Crossing her fingers behind her back that Éomer was still at court, she announced herself at the gate of the Steward's House two hours later and was immediately led to the drawing room. Within a few moments, Éowyn appeared, looking her up and down with some surprise.

"Lothíriel."

She awkwardly held out her basket. "They are honey cakes. I made them."

"You made them?"

"I remember you were craving them when you were carrying Elboron."

"That's very thoughtful. I did not know you knew how to bake."

"I don't really. I merely followed our cook's instructions to the letter. Of course, some would believe me even more incapable of that."

Was that pity in Éowyn's eyes? Lothíriel dismissed the notion, as it was too humiliating. "Thank you," said the Princess of Ithilien.

"I did have an ulterior motive. Or rather, I was hoping you would invite me to tea."

"You are welcome to stay. You did not need to bribe me with baked goods."

They made their way to the solar, and tea was served, while Lothíriel inquired about Faramir and Elboron. Éowyn responded politely, but not with the same ease that had grown between them while she had been staying at Emyn Arnen, and the covert glances Éowyn cast in her direction told Lothíriel what she had already expected.

"Your brother told you what happened, didn't he?" she asked when the maid had left the room.

Éowyn sighed. "Yes, he told me. Lothíriel…"

"Do you think I am awful?" she interrupted.

"Lothíriel…" began Éowyn again. She sipped her tea and stared at the hearth, then looked back at her rather abruptly. "Have you spoken to anyone about this?"

Lothíriel just shook her head.

"You may talk to me, if you'd like. But I wish you would talk to my brother."

"Actually, I already tried that today. Although," she felt forced to admit, "it was not a particularly good attempt."

"You did not quarrel again, did you?"

"No. We were… polite."

Éowyn winced. "I see."

"He hates me now. And just when I decided – when I realised…"

She could not finish the sentence but it was enough. Éowyn cleared her throat. "You know my brother can be a bit of an ass?"

So taken aback was Lothíriel by Éowyn's language – Éomer and Éowyn were both usually so correct, could even be a little foppish in Westron, which Lothíriel suspected was because in Rohan the Common Tongue was used but rarely - that she had nodded before she quite realised what she was agreeing to.

"Good," said Éowyn brusquely. "That will make it easier going forward. I do not think he hates you now. But you must see you had him half-mad with fear."

"Yes. He gave me a great speech how my disobedience could endanger my father and lose them the war, or something."

"I meant his fear to lose _you_. As you well know."

Lothíriel looked to her feet. Did she know, really? Of course, Éomer had shown care and concern for her long before they were friendly. Even at Edoras, so clumsily, and in Amrothos's tent, contempt and disdain and concern, before he even knew who she was… And yet at times when she had tried to reach out to him, he seemed as cold and severe as the mountain snows.

"Did you truly make these, Lothíriel?" Éowyn's voice cut through her reverie. She took another bite of her cake. "They are really good."

Lothíriel arched her back and smiled. "My aunt will be so pleased. She is always telling me to make more constructive use of my time. I am not sure if she had baking in mind, but you cannot argue that it isn't constructive."

Éowyn nodded, a little disinterested, then put her cake down and looked right at her. "Éomer told me about Suldis. I am very sorry. I know you loved her."

She could not stop it: her mind flashed back to that fatal moment, when she thought she had got it right - pressed the right leg to her barrel and applied the right cue on the reins, but now she was not sure because her head had been elsewhere until with a shock she flew out of the saddle, and then Suldis…

"Lothíriel, breathe. Please."

Lothíriel looked at Éowyn without comprehension until she realised the air was trapped in her chest, and she blew it out with some force. It took another minute to recover enough to speak, quietly. "I cannot even think of it without wanting to throw up."

Éowyn nodded in understanding, looked pensive for a moment and then passed her a honey cake of her own. Lothíriel took it, rather non-plussed. "It was a very silly thing for you to do."

Silly was such an understatement that Lothíriel almost choked out a laugh.

"I do not know how you were expecting to get away with it, or to outride my brother and his entire éored. No one could ever blame you for lack of nerve and self-regard."

"Thank you," said Lothíriel. "I think."

"Why did you do it?"

"There is no single reason."

A silence fell. "Lothíriel, if you feel trapped..." Éowyn shot her a sideways glance, and then twisted one of her golden bands around her wrists. Some crumbs fell to the floor as she did. "It is hard, for us, when we want to be more than someone's daughter, more than someone's wife. I well understand how it feels to have everyone's deeds seem to matter but yours."

"It is what I said to Éomer. That I wanted to help. That I wanted to prove myself." Lothíriel bit her lip and rested her chin in her hand. "I think I believed it to be true at the time. But if I am honest, I was mostly just unhappy, and wanted to be with my brother. And I thought I could make it, and would be a coward if I did not try."

"That I understand too," said Éowyn softly. "Very well."

Lothíriel shook her head. "Your brother is right. I am not like you. I could never do what you did. As we now know, I cannot even effectively run away."

Éowyn brushed her hair back with her hand, the pale glow of the winter sun illuminating her face. "Actually, I think you could and would have done exactly as I did, if something had threatened your father and you had been there. Well, if someone had taught you how to wield a sword of course."

It was by far the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her and Lothíriel could not help but beam. "That is very kind of you to say. But not one in a million could have faced what you faced. You are a hero as much as your brother, and my father and my brothers," she added almost somberly.

"I was selfish once too, you know. It's a part of the story usually left out."

Another silence. A tribe of ants was marching on the crumbs, weaving around the tapestry and congregating at their feet. Lothiriel followed them with her eyes. "I found out last year. Some of Éomer's men told me when they were in their cups," she said after a moment, a little embarrassed. "You abandoned a post at Dunharrow. I never heard it at court so I did not speak of it again."

Éowyn inclined her head. "That was Faramir's decision. I told him first, just after we agreed to wed. He thought I might have an easier time at your court if people did not know."

"Perhaps," said Lothíriel. "Although I don't think it diminishes what you did. And your countrymen seem to feel no rancour regardless of how you came to the battle. I remember they laughed when they told me. They are very proud."

"Well, when you slay the Lord of the Ringwraiths, especially in the Mark, where deeds of war are greatly revered, a bit of disobedience seems almost trivial. But there was some ill will, among the women and others left behind, and I do not blame them for it."

"And Éomer?"

"Éomer was upset with me. More, I think, than he was willing to admit. But he loves me, and so he forgave me. And he loves you too."

She swallowed hard. "Once I thought that he might. But then I thought that he might not."

"You doubted his feelings?"

Lothíriel poured herself another cup of tea, keeping her eyes firmly on the pot as she did. She was pleased when her voice sounded almost matter-of-fact: "Were you never worried that Faramir would bed you once – and be disenchanted?"

"Is that what worries you? I should think it unlikely. My brother has always been the loyal sort, and is wise enough to know that repeated bedding only increases the pleasure."

Lothíriel blushed at that. "It is what my aunt says happens when men allow themselves to be led by their eyes alone."

"What makes you think Éomer is led by his eyes alone?"

"Come, Éowyn. Your brother may be attracted to me, but otherwise he does not think much of me at all."

Éowyn eyed her with some curiosity. "Your wealth and position alone would force him to think more of you than just some pretty thing. But I can see that this is not what you mean. I did not think you could be so insecure. You wear it strangely, Lothíriel."

"Oh, I can be terribly insecure," said Lothíriel with a dismissive wave. "I just do not see the need for bashfulness if you know the world considers you beautiful and good. If I were Raissel, or you for that matter, I would never blush and be sure every man in Rohan and Gondor was in love with me."

"Oh indeed?"

"If a woman is beautiful, loving, rich and confident, there is no man in the world she cannot have. Unless the man is an ogre, in which case marriage is inadvisable.

"What if the man is wed or has promised himself to another?"

Lothíriel bit her lip. "Well yes, that would be a very foolish pursuit." She gazed at Éowyn through her lashes, wondering if another rumour was true as well. She decided to defuse the tension just in case. "I mean, there might well be a way around the man's honour. They are only men after all. But I would never dare cross another woman in matters of the heart. That is too reckless even for me."

Éowyn smiled and put down her cup of tea.

"Unless you are trying to tell me some other court ninny set her cap at Éomer again."

Now the Princess of Ithilien laughed in earnest. "You know, you really are a ditz." Lothíriel puffed up her cheeks in defense. "Don't worry, I won't stand in your way. I've always felt my brother rather deserves you."

"Oh hush, nothing is going to happen between me and your brother now."

"Speak with him. At least part friends."

"I shall try. Oh, I shall try," sighed Lothíriel.

Outside, a song rose in the air and drifted in through the windows; the call that signaled the time had come for the evening meal. Although the King's household ate after the soldiers in the barracks and the people in the city, she knew it meant Éomer would be back soon, and she needed time to gather her thoughts before seeing him. Lothíriel rose to her feet.

"One more thing," said Éowyn, rising also. "You said you cannot think of Suldis without feeling nauseated?"

A chill returned to the room and Lothíriel stiffened.

"It is very common, you know," continued Éowyn.

Lothíriel made a helpless gesture with her hands. "It is not just… The last time someone suggested I go riding, I just threw up."

Éowyn nodded. "Yes, that is not unusual. You know, hundreds of riders have once upon a time lost a beloved horse through a mistake on the battlefield. Accidents happen even in training or on hunts and pleasure jaunts. All these men knew they had to get back on a horse, and they did. So should you."

Her head was pounding as she shook it from side to side. "It is too much. It was my fault. She was my friend; she trusted me and I failed her." It was the first time she had admitted it, and it made her feel both better and so much worse.

"You had an accident. You will learn from it and judge your own skills and your horse's more astutely in the future."

"No." She surprised herself by the vehemence of her response.

"Yes, Lothíriel," said Éowyn, as overbearing as her brother. "If you let this fester, you might never go back. It is why we force children straight back in the saddle after a tumble."

"But it's not that I'm afraid to fall," said Lothíriel after a moment. "I had so many accidents when I taught myself to walk the tightrope. But it was always just me who got hurt."

"And now it is not just you. It was never just you, although I know how hard that is to see. That does not mean you can just quit. That is courage, Lothíriel. And that is what it means to rule."

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _Such busy days, but today I had some time to polish and post this chapter! I hope you enjoyed it! Putting this up quickly before going off to another dinner, so please alert me if you catch an error._

 _Thank you to all my wonderful unregistered reviewers whom I cannot thank via PM. I agree that successful marriages need to be built on common values, Anon – at least, I cannot imagine how to do it without! Adri, I am glad you like this Eowyn! She has always been one of my favourites. PoemstheEarth, your long reviews and reflections are always so wonderful to read and it makes sharing so fun! Thank you for loving Lothi as much as I do, in spite of all her flaws._


	22. Folly is not always Folly

**Folly is not always Folly**

Her father had arrived in the middle of the night, and had left for the King's House before breakfast, barely taking the time to kiss her on the cheek in greeting. Lothíriel had leisurely broken her fast in solitude, mulling over her conversation with Éowyn and what she should do next. She had promised Éowyn to try and talk to Éomer before he left, but she could not very well accost him while he was in a meeting nor did she want to have this conversation in front of her father. She had of course also promised to conquer her fears, somehow, before she let them grow and fester. Lothíriel blew out her cheeks, sniped a few apples from the fruit centerpiece and told Maeneth she was staying on the sixth and would not be needing an escort. Then she left the house, blinking at the low white sun, and made her way to the King's stables.

The King's stables were right around the bend from the Houses of Healing, near the steps that led up to the Citadel. They were housed in three narrow buildings along the wall, neither as spacious nor as light as the ones in Edoras, although they held quite as many horses; both the ones belonging to the King's household and his guests as well as those of the noble families of the upper circles. When Lothíriel came close and breathed the familiar scent of hay and sweat, she was overcome by a spell of dizziness and for a few minutes she leaned against the wall, trying to wrestle back control from her stomach. Then she pushed through and entered the stables, greeting the guards with as cheerful a smile as she could muster. If she had to do one terrifying thing, she might as well do two. That was how Lothíriel of Dol Amroth liked to do things.

A part of Lothíriel's heart expected the horses to recoil from her in fear, or for the stables to spontaneously burst into flames as she walked past, but none of that happened. Instead, the horses she knew greeted her with merry whickers, like they always had. As if nothing was different at all. She walked over to her father's horse, Lagorel, first and fed her an apple and stroked her nose until the tremor in her fingers disappeared. Lagorel was pleased to see her, sniffed for more treats and tried to lean on her shoulders, and gradually Lothíriel's nausea subsided to a bearable queasiness.

Then she said farewell, and moved to the next set of stalls to find the one she had come for most of all. Firefoot was standing tall, pawing the floor impatiently, perhaps not altogether pleased with his surroundings. She dragged her eyes over him, and expelled another breath. At some point, Éomer-King would have to come for his horse. She would meet him here and he would have to talk to her, at least for as long as it took to saddle Firefoot. Until then, well…

She approached the stallion with care, but he recognised her instantly and flicked his ears and then his face towards her.

"Are you in a bad mood, _miluir_?" said Lothíriel softly.

Firefoot snorted in confirmation.

"Is our southern hay not as appetising as what they serve back home?"

He nickered, as if he truly understood what she was saying, and Lothíriel smiled and walked up closer, allowing him to nuzzle her and breathe in her face. Lothíriel fed him the rest of her apples, then searched around for a grooming kit, for his coat looked dusty and there were some tangles in his mane where there should not be. She entered the stall, gave him a good brush, and combed his mane, working free the tangles and feeling better for the activity. This she had done so often there was no way to mess it up. For a final touch, she untied her hair and braided one of her silk ribbons into Firefoot's tail, tucking it away carefully in the centre of the skirt so it would not be immediately discovered. As a desperate romantic gesture it would almost certainly be misconstrued - Éomer did not strike her as the romantic sort - but at least she could get a laugh out of imagining the King galloping across the plains with a length of rose-coloured ribbon streaming behind him in the wind.

"Ah, Princess Lothíriel!" The voice startled her out of her reverie, and she looked over her shoulder to the man who had stopped in front of the stall: Halbarad, the King's master of horses, who had once served her father in Dol Amroth. "The King of Rohan said he would send someone to fetch his steed later."

Lothíriel's heart sank into her boots as her plan came apart at the seams. "He did?"

"Yes, my lady. He was here yesterday evening, ordered me to stay away from his horse and that he would send someone to fetch him today." The old stable master could not hide a hint of pique. "I was expecting his squire."

Strange. Yet Lothíriel knew that King Elessar liked to hold some of his meetings in a tavern down in the third; and while it was not as shady as some of the lower ones, it was not the best place to stable an expensive horse. Perhaps they had met there and Éomer had figured he would walk down to the camp afterwards.

Halbarad, meanwhile, was still muttering about haughty northerners. "As if he was the first cantankerous stallion to cross my path. Ha! They always come round in the end. Except that wizard's horse, but he's made of magic, isn't he? That one is just spoiled."

"His squire has been very ill," she told the master of horses. "And King Éomer probably just meant to convey that Firefoot can be difficult and untrusting towards strangers, and he does not want any of the stable boys endangering themselves. He has a way of phrasing these things in an eccentrically charming manner."

"You certainly seem no stranger to him, Princess."

"No, I am not," said Lothíriel softly.

"Well, I'm glad the King of Rohan does not underrate your skills at least, for there are few better riders in Minas Tirith. I suppose you will want Eradir to accompany you, Princess?"

Hold on, did the stablemaster think Éomer had sent _her_ to collect Firefoot? "I thought I could lead him down to the camp myself," said Lothíriel, giving into an impulse she knew she should repress.

"By yourself?" said Master Halbarad somewhat discomfited.

"It is just outside the city. And Firefoot is a warhorse; he is a great protector."

"If you say so, Princess. Will I send Eradir to help you with his tack?"

"No need," said Lothíriel. "I can manage it."

It had been a while since Lothíriel had saddled a horse, and certainly never one so large as this one, but with the help of a few stools and a very patient Firefoot, she did manage it. Then she walked him out to the yard and through the gate, expecting all the while that someone would rush up and stop her, but no one did, and the guards let her pass without much of a second look. Of course, Lothíriel with a horse far too large for her was no strange sight; she exercised her father and brothers' horses often enough, and would collect Lagorel for her father whenever he was pressed for time.

The streets were busy because of the markets, and though she sensed the crowds made Firefoot uneasy, he walked beside her with calm and dignity. She peeped into the tavern when she was on the third, but if the King was there, there would be guards posted at the door and she saw none. Likely the meeting was over and King Éomer was already at the camp. She wound her way through livestock and wagons with colourful displays and a crowd of people gathered around a mummer's show. The scents of spices hung in the air, coriander and turmeric and saffron from Dol Amroth, cheeses from Lebennin and salted fish from the coasts.

It was not until Lothíriel made her way out the gate that she realised her mistake. There were many wagons on the road, and people pouring in and out of the city gates, but as she stood on her tiptoes and looked left and right, she saw no tents, no green banners with white horses, no men with long yellow hair. It seemed the camp had broken up and where the riders of Rohan were, she had no idea. She looked back up to the city, swallowed hard, and then looked out over the fields again. Perhaps she had misjudged the distance and they were just beyond that hill. Time to make good on her promise to Éowyn. She looked up at Firefoot, reached up to the pommel of the saddle and in one fluid movement flung herself up on his back.

oOo

Éomer strode back up the sixth level with urgency in his step. He had at the last moment decided to send his éored on ahead and follow with his personal guard later, for earlier it had looked like rain on the Pelennor and it would be miserable to break in the wet. Besides, he wished to get out of Gondor as fast as he could now, before he would break his resolve, before he could question its validity, before Éowyn could ask him one more blasted time to talk to Lothíriel before he left. Somehow, he had managed to be perfectly friendly to the prince, even when Imrahil asked after Lothíriel's accident with Suldis, for of course that part of the adventure had been impossible to conceal. He had told him the truth – as far as that went – that Lothíriel had missed a jump, causing Suldis to break both her front legs, and that he had been forced to put her down.

"I am sorry," said Imrahil.

So was he.

"She was costly, and very dear to Lothíriel."

Ha well.

"Lothíriel was good with her, after," was all he said. "She stayed with her, made sure she was warm, calmed her down and comforted her until the end. Not many could have calmed a horse in such distress." It was a generous thought he had not known he was harbouring.

The stablehands cast him some strange looks when he entered the King's stables, but he did not think anything of it until he came to the stall where Firefoot was supposed to be housed and found it empty.

"You," he said, pointing at one of the dark-haired lads who was shaking out saddle cloths. "Where is my horse? I thought I said to stay away from him."

"I am not sure, my lord. Let me get the master," stammered the boy.

The master of horses was fetched, a man called Halbarad whom Éomer had met and argued with before.

"Your steed, my lord? Hum, they came to get him a little while ago."

Éomer's impatience turned to concern. "What? Who is 'they'? I did not send anyone."

"You didn't, my lord? I thought you said…

"My men have ridden on ahead, except for those whom you see here. Who took Firefoot?"

The man looked thoroughly uncomfortable now and scratched his head. "Ah, she said your squire was indisposed, I think, and I figured you had asked her to ride him down… I found her grooming him. She had obviously ridden him before."

"Who took my horse?" said Éomer with growing suspicion.

"Princess Lothíriel."

oOo

Minutes later, Éomer stormed into the King of Gondor's council chamber.

"Where is Imrahil?" he demanded.

The men sitting at the table – Aragorn and his master of the keys, Hurin – and the dwarf Gimli looked up in surprise. Legolas, who had been staring out the window, looked back over his shoulder more slowly, then picked up his goblet of wine from the windowsill and took a delicate sip.

"Éomer? What happened?" asked Aragorn.

"His witch of a daughter, of course. But she has gone too far this time."

The King of Gondor turned to one of his guards. "Padon, find Imrahil. He should be in the library. Tell him to come at once."

"She stole my horse!"

"Princess Lothíriel stole your horse?" asked Aragorn with some disbelief. Éomer could swear he could hear the dwarf snort. "Why ever would she do such a thing?"

"Why? Why does Lothíriel do anything? There likely was no why involved at all!"

"It is a serious crime you are accusing her of. Surely there is a reason."

He paced around the room, and then threw up his hands. "We have quarreled."

"About what?"

"About what have we not quarreled!"

"Ah, a lover's tiff," said the dwarf with some understanding.

"No one is anyone's lover," said Éomer, slamming his palm on the table. "There is something very wrong with that woman."

"My liege, surely…," sputtered Hurin. "Princess Lothíriel is one of my daughter's dearest friends, and a member of your household."

Éomer turned to the master of the keys and pointed a finger at him. "Raissel, yes? If she were mine, I would keep her well away from that impertinent hussy."

"Definitely a lover's tiff," stated Gimli.

The door swung open and in strode Imrahil, looking rather non-plussed. "What is going on?" he asked. "My liege, Padon said something of Lothíriel?"

"Éomer-King believes Lothíriel may have his horse, Firefoot."

"It is not merely my belief," growled Éomer. "Your master of horses confirms it. She took him."

It was not often that Éomer witnessed shock on the Prince of Dol Amroth's face. "Lothíriel did _what_? Why?"

"She is _your_ daughter," he bit.

Imrahil just raised an eyebrow.

"Do we know where she has taken him?" asked Aragorn.

"She was headed out of the city gates," said Éomer. "It does not matter. I will find her fast enough." He had done so before, after all. But now he had no horse. Blast and curse the girl. "Or my éored will hunt her down."

"Now look here…" began Imrahil.

"Éomer, my brother, please," cut in Aragorn. "Let's not send an éored after the Princess over what I am sure is a misunderstanding. Legolas?"

"I am here, my friend." The Elf was leaning out of the window. "And the missing princess I see down by the river."

Éomer's heart skipped a beat.

"Can I ask you to restore Firefoot to his stables, and Lothíriel to her father?" asked Aragorn calmly.

"Of course," said the Elf, and left the chamber on swift feet.

"Éomer," said Imrahil, running his hands through his hair and looking more uncomfortable than Éomer had ever seen him. "I am not sure what is going on, or what Lothíriel has done, but I am sure there must be some explanation."

"Legolas will be able to find her faster than any of us," said Gimli, clapping him on the shoulder and leading him to a seat near the fire. "Then we will sort this out for you. In the meantime, have a drink and I shall tell you of the time my mother blew up my father's forge."

oOo

Meanwhile, Lothíriel was ambling along a quiet road by the river, now certain that she had done something terribly stupid – again. She knew the best thing to do was to return to the city and deliver Firefoot back into the hands of Master Halbarad, but she was honestly not sure if she could face it. How long had she been gone? An hour, perhaps, nearly two? Too long to nurse a genuine hope that this latest scheme might go undiscovered. And what would Éomer make of this? She burst out laughing, bent forward to scratch Firefoot behind the ears, and then more soberly stared down the river. It was a perfect chilly day, just a tinge of frost in the air and a northern wind played around her and through the orange leaves on the trees. It had been good to ride again, and Firefoot was so well trained and biddable under her hands that Lothíriel was barely afraid. But she was still shaken -and increasingly dismayed at herself- and she had had enough. She slid off Firefoot's back and left him to graze, while she wandered to where the riverbank was low and washed her face and hands in the water. Then she lay down in the grass and stared up at the clouds until her fingertips were red with cold.

"Princess Lothíriel. I am here to escort you back to the city," came a musical voice behind her.

"I see," said Lothíriel. She sat up and looked at Legolas' fair face, trying to get a read on his mood and failing utterly. She had seen him often over the last months, as a frequent guest of the King, and once or twice in Emyn Arnen as well, but she could not say she knew him well. He was not like the Queen; he was stranger, less human somehow. He was also kind.

"I feel important indeed if the King would send one of his closest friends after me," she said, twirling a blade of grass between her fingers and digging her nails in the mud.

Legolas smiled as he sat down next to her. "Perhaps his closest friend was sent out to reclaim the horse of his greatest ally, whom he calls his brother."

Lothíriel resisted the urge to make a face. Then she grew somber and muttered: "I am going to be in awful trouble. Éomer is going to kill me."

She pressed her forehead to her knees in an attempt to shut out the rest of the world. So they sat for a few minutes while Lothíriel's thoughts slowed from a stampede, a flurry of backflips and handsprings, to an almost wry resignation. Legolas did not move and she felt he was perfectly at ease with her silence. "I am in no hurry to return to the city," she eventually said in a muffled voice. "But don't let me delay you."

"Would you rather sit here and brood for a while longer?" asked Legolas, his tone pleasant. "I feel I must say there was some urgency in the King's message, but the day is young and I would be amenable if you would like to do something else for a while."

Lothíriel groaned and cast him a mournful glance.

"Come, my lady," said Legolas. He held his hand out to her and she took it in spite of herself. "I have heard you are an excellent rider, and have some skill at vaulting. Perhaps you will show me?"

Lothíriel blushed. "It is nothing, really. And I am not sure if Firefoot will let me."

She eyed the stallion who was grazing calmly a few feet away. Legolas' horse, Arod, had joined him; they seemed to know one another, and Arod was using his tail to flick some flies off Firefoot's face.

"Do not worry," said Legolas. "He trusts and likes you well, and is eager to bear you. I would not have asked otherwise."

Lothíriel – a little mystified but not about to question elvish intuition – let out the short whistle Aldor had taught her at Edoras, and Firefoot's ears flicked. He raised his head and stepped towards her. She raised her arm to stroke his flank, and Firefoot snorted, nudging her in a manner she was sure he thought gentle, but almost making her lose her balance in the process.

"Don't push, Firefoot," she scolded him softly.

Then she put her hands on the stallion's back and swung herself in the saddle in a single motion. Firefoot took a few steps sideways but stood still as she gently tugged at the reins. Then, biting her lip just thinking about what Éomer would have to say about this, she folded her legs underneath her, giving the stallion time to adjust to this new sensation and whispering calming nonsense in Sindarin, hoping that Legolas was not paying too close attention. She placed one foot on the saddle, shifting and testing how he would respond to her weight, but Firefoot was on his best behaviour and did not move a muscle. Slowly, Lothíriel rose up, holding on to Firefoot's mane. Then she stood and dropped her last anchor, spreading her arms and feeling triumphant. She looked down to see Legolas smiling at her and she smiled back, moving her weight from one foot to the other and then taking a careful step back. Firefoot, perhaps inspired, started ambling and Lothíriel wobbled.

"Ho," she called the stallion hastily to attention, and then regained her balance with a delicate flourish of her feet. Carefully, she raised one leg up in the air and let herself fall forward until she came to stand on her hands. She had worked up to a one-hand stand with Suldis, but she did not want to go too far with _King Éomer's horse – oh dear –_ so she came back on her knees and turned to the Elf.

"You do your ancestors proud, Princess Lothíriel," said Legolas. He paused and added. "Your heritage is as evident in your movement as it is in your father's features. Now would you like me to teach you how to do that straight from mounting?"

Lothíriel's felt her face light up in delight, but then she hesitated and frowned. "Éomer is going to kill me."

Legolas seemed philosophical about that chance. "I thought he was already going to kill you."

"Aye. He will probably kill me twice."

oOo

When the Princess and the Elf entered the council chamber almost two hours later, Imrahil was off his seat first, but Lothíriel's eyes found his and she bit her lip, and sent him such an imploring look that he had to look away and ball his fists.

"Lothíriel, what is this folly?" demanded Imrahil. "Did you take Éomer's horse? Why?"

She glanced up at her father, and then her eyes drifted across the room to search his face again. "Éowyn told me not to delay and start riding again."

Of course. Éomer was going to strangle his sister.

"That is neither a reason nor an excuse," said Imrahil curtly. "We have many horses of our own suitable for that."

"Well, I did not take out Firefoot for some aimless pleasure ride."

"I hope not. That would be intolerably stupid."

"Mind you, he was quite bored when I found him."

"Lothíriel," said Aragorn, calling the girl to attention, and she shuffled her feet and curtsied to her king. "You caused a lot of commotion. The full story, if you please."

"My apologies, my liege." She sighed and turned up her palms. "I was at the stables this morning to check up on Firefoot, because I know he gives the stablehands trouble sometimes. Firefoot does not know them and does not allow them to handle him, you see, and I…" she cast a sideways glance at Éomer, "he got to know me well in Emyn Arnen. Master Halbarad told me that someone would have to bring him down to the camp, and I thought I could help and also that I could… say goodbye. I did not know the Rohirrim had already left, or that King Éomer was going to walk back up himself, or I would never have presumed to take him."

The room was silent for a moment. Éomer wanted to bury his face in his hands, but Lothíriel's eyes still darted towards him every few beats. He settled for gazing at the hearth instead.

"Well," said Aragorn mildly. "It seems that there was no ill intent. Still, I should hope you think more clearly in the future."

"Lothíriel, you know you are forbidden to go to the lower levels without a guard," said Imrahil sternly. "As a battle-steed, Firefoot is priceless, and might well have tempted some ambitious bandit.

"No lowlife is going to take Firefoot, especially not on a street full of people. He would bite their heads off without a second thought. I think he makes a much better guard than many men would."

Éomer silently agreed.

"It was thoughtless and reckless, Lothíriel. Be assured there will be consequences." Imrahil turned to him. "Éomer, on behalf of my daughter I offer you whatever reparations my house can offer for the inconvenience. Lothíriel will offer an apology. Now."

"Of course," said Lothíriel. "Because he does deserve one." She took a few steps towards him. "My lord – Éomer – I know I acted rashly and stupidly. I caused you worry and pain, and that was wrong and unwarranted and as it turned out, the last thing in the world I wanted to do. I am really, really sorry. For you know what," she added in a low voice, but he heard it.

It was a bold apology, and a personal one, far more personal than was appropriate in this room, in this situation, in front of these people. He stared at Lothíriel for a while, and she returned his gaze, expectant, her heart on her face and in her eyes… "Very well," he said at last.

"Imrahil, can I trust you to handle things from here?" asked Aragorn.

"Of course."

"Éomer, my friend, are you satisfied?"

He gave a quick nod.

Lothíriel exhaled, stretched her arms above her head and smiled the most brazen smile anyone had ever dared. "Well then. All is well that ends well. I wish you a safe journey home, my lord. With no further delays."

"I hope you remembered to let Firefoot drink," he grumbled, annoyed with the speed of her recovery.

She frowned, brows delicately knitted together in a perfect imitation of her father. "Of course."

"You put his saddle pad out to dry?"

"Of course," she repeated.

"And you checked his hoofs. There are a lot of rocks by the river."

She hopped from one foot to the other, made some indeterminate fluttering gesture with her fingers and chewed her bottom lip. "I stood on him, actually," she said then, grinning like a madcap.

Disbelief – no, rage – exploded in him like a storm, he felt his body tense and the vein on his forehead throbbed, and yet Lothíriel did not step back like any sensible person would, but she leaned closer and smiled that smile again.

"You _stood_ on Firefoot?" he choked out at last.

"Yes. Under supervision, of course. Legolas also gave me some advice for jumping bareback."

The Elf smiled, as if it were a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

"Firefoot took to it very well. We think he had a nice time."

On the other side of the room he could hear the creak of the door, and Imrahil imploring his daughter to follow him home, but his eyes were glued to that smile, those lovely arched eyebrows and he was no longer sure which emotion was rendering him speechless.

"I could show you sometime," said the vixen.

And then he broke. "Very well. That's it. This ends here." He grabbed Lothíriel by her lower arm and dragged her over to her father. "Imrahil, I am asking for your daughter's hand in marriage."

For a moment, the Prince of Dol Amroth looked taken aback and then he smiled like a boy over his first pony. "You have it."

He could feel Lothíriel sway, and her mouth had fallen open in shock. "What? _Father_!" And then to him: "Just like that? You do not bother to ask _me_? Or even talk to me?"

"Why would I? You deserve none of that!"

She flushed and stomped her foot. "Éomer, you cave troll!" She shook herself loose and turned to her father again. "This is not some barbarian backwater. You cannot just hand me over. You need my consent."

"For the wedding, yes. Although not technically for an engagement," pointed out Imrahil, still appearing aggravatingly pleased.

"Well, it is not happening! Not like _this_."

What did she want now, a love poem? Flowers to adorn her hair? Had she not already bewitched him and taken everything from him – his reason, his better judgment? "You had better consent, Princess," exploded Éomer. "Or I may yet have to ride to war against Dol Amroth. We take horse-stealing very seriously in the Mark."

Lothíriel stared at him, completely dumbfounded. Then she turned on her heel and sprinted out of the room. She slammed the door on her way out, and he could hear her footsteps echoing down the hall.

"This is a diplomatic disaster," groaned Hurin after a moment.

Aragorn coughed. "Hum. Lothíriel is correct, of course. Gondor would be pleased with this match, but only if it is entered willingly by both parties. I acknowledge the rules are not precisely clear, but Lothíriel belongs to my household also and I will not give my blessing to a betrothal unless she consents."

"She will," said Éomer, still too much in a rage to heed the niggling voice of doubt in his head. "Of course she will consent; it is not a problem."

"Imrahil, what say you? She is your daughter."

The Prince of Dol Amroth did his best to control his features. "Ahem. Lothíriel has had a trying day. I expect the storm will settle in a day or so."

"She is beautiful, and he is a fine-looking man as well. I cannot see any objections," weighed in Gimli.

"Yes, thank you Gimli," said Aragorn. "Hear me, both of you; I forbid any announcements until I speak with Lothíriel and hear her consent. Rumours I am afraid we cannot avoid," Aragorn stared at them intently and Éomer rubbed the back of his neck, "but I bid you all to please try not to fuel the fire."

The men around the room nodded their agreement, while Éomer leaned his hands on the table, as the enormity of what he had just done began to sink in, and he felt jubilant and furious and terrified all at once.

"Imrahil, I hope you know what you are doing," said Aragorn with a dismissive wave.

The Prince bowed and left the chamber.

* * *

 _A_ _/N_

 _Happy New Year to you all, whenever 2018 arrives in your timezone!_

 _And finally I made good on my promise to have a small part for Legolas (again one of the first scenes I wrote for this story; and largely unchanged too!)._

 _I know this chapter was probably not what you were expecting. Stay tuned._

 _I know I have not caught up with all reviewers – I am sorry for being tardy again, but I keep thinking you probably would rather have the next installment as soon as possible. Just know how much I appreciate hearing from you, and how much you all make me want to write and post more. This discussion seems to be quite alive in fandom again recently – in a culture in which many of us basically have unlimited access to art and stories to consume it is so easy to forget that the things we see and read took real time and effort to produce – but it is easy to discourage fan writers with silence (especially since they do not otherwise get paid) and getting them to write more is often equally easy (let them know you are there!). So leave a comment if you have the time, on this story and on other stories you enjoy._

 _Yes, this story is split in three parts! I will share some more info about part three very soon (after this twist I don't want to give too much away), but I promise I am not just quitting "in the middle" somewhere, so that None of the Usual Inducements has a conclusion of sorts of its own as well._


	23. Always First and Always Right

**Always First and Always Right**

Lothíriel had been safely locked in her room by the time she heard her father come home, prepared both for his temper and to throw some tantrums of her own. Yet to her surprise -and increasing annoyance- her father had not bothered to seek her out at all. Instead, Prince Imrahil had simply retreated to his study and closed the door. He did not appear for dinner; and Lothíriel had a maid send up some of the spiced scallops she had planned to serve while she played with her food in the solitude of their dining room. Around tea-time, Lothíriel snuck down to the kitchens to ask if her father had left word when he wanted to have his supper. The cook informed her that the Prince had in fact had his tea brought straight to his study a half hour ago, and that he had seemed quite busy "doing his writing and whatnot." Outraged, Lothíriel snatched a freshly baked roll from the counter top, ate it on a stool in the corner like a serving-girl and swiped the crumbs into the hearth. Then she marched up to her father's rooms. She did not bother to knock. Her father had just accepted a proposal for her hand in spite of her vocal displeasure, and he was not even going to discuss it with her? He did not deserve the courtesy of a knock.

Her father looked up from his desk and pushed his seat back, looking as calm and at ease as ever; his blue tunic immaculate and his hair still more black than white. "Lothíriel. I did not send for you."

"Hello, father." She closed the door behind her –softly and controlled, because she was determined to not give him any excuses to call her out for her behaviour – and crossed the room to sit on the windowsill. Her father did not keep an extra chair in this particular room where he liked to work, so as to discourage visitors from lingering, so as to always be the one in control while they stood around looking awkward. One of his little power plays. But Lothíriel was seldom awkward, and knew the rules of the game as well as he did. She leaned against the window, glazed with frost and cold against her back, and hugged her knees.

"You are upset," observed Imrahil.

"I am upset."

"Yes, I can tell. Why?"

" _Why?"_ Lothíriel barely resisted the urge to jump up and stomp her foot. "You _know_ why."

"Ah," said Imrahil. "That."

He bent over his papers again and Lothíriel thought she might explode. "So that's it? I am to be wed? You just say yes, without consulting me, without even pausing to think?"

Her father looked up, seeming pleased all over again. "On the contrary. I have given it substantive thought, and many times before today. And I did mention it to you once before."

"I remember. I also remember I said 'Ada, you must be mad' _._ And yet you agreed with such enthusiasm that it seemed you were wedding the love of your life yourself."

"That might be overstating it," said Imrahil drily. "Although I will admit to some delight."

"Are you in such a hurry to be rid of me?"

"Not at all, Lothíriel. There are few men whom I would have even considered giving you to and none with quite such enthusiasm, as you call it."

"I am not yours to just bestow on another," mumbled Lothíriel.

"That's debatable," said her father with an airy tone.

Lothíriel pulled her knees closer to her chest still and when she spoke, it was just a whisper. "You would have me engaged on a technicality?"

Her father leaned back and folded his hands together, looking her over with a pensive expression. "Come here, dearest," he said then, tapping on his desk, and Lothíriel, after a few moments of indecision, uncurled her body, sauntered over and perched on the side, letting her legs swing against the heavy wood. Her father smiled, opened a drawer, and pulled out a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He filled them both to the rim, and pushed one towards her. (Lothíriel was a little shocked. The Prince of Dol Amroth did not normally allow his daughter to drink anything stronger than wine). "Lothíriel, you must know I have no wish to see my daughter wedded without her consent. Even if it were in my power to do so."

"Well, I refused to consent. Rather publicly."

"You spoke in haste and anger. I thought I would give you a few days to consider and remember the manner of the proposal is not the relevant part."

"It is hardly irrelevant either."

Her father continued as if he had not heard her: "Fair words are just that; it is a man's actions that determine whether he makes a good husband."

Lothíriel considered this for a moment. Were not words also actions? Especially if the words were a proposal of marriage? Yet this was not the time to get bogged down by theoretical discussions. She focused on what was important. "So you will not force me?"

"Of course I will not. And more importantly, Éomer would also never consent to wed you if you did not do so willingly; you and I both know him well enough to know this is true."

"Do we?"

"To be honest, he seemed convinced that you would consent."

She felt a fresh wave of indignation. "Of course he did. Arrogant, presumptuous orc of a man."

"Lothíriel…" said her father warningly. "Let's not have more of this."

"He threatened me."

I doubt he meant it," said Imrahil without much interest.

"You think the King of Rohan just idly threatened war in front of the rulers of Gondor? As what, a lark?"

Her father's eyes crinkled at the corners. "You did steal his horse."

"You are supposed to be on my side," said Lothíriel.

"I am." She looked at him with plaintive eyes and he relented. "He had no business threatening you, Lothíriel. It was ill said, but he was angry and we all know how much you enjoy to provoke."

"And you thought: that is a great foundation for a successful marriage. Let's say yes."

Her father laughed. "Oh, love… Not quite like that, I assure you." He rose to his feet, lifted her off the desk, kissed her brow and set her in his chair. Then he topped up her glass and pushed it back in her direction. "You know, even when I first got to know Éomer, I cherished a wish… Well, I have told you this before. But he was grieving and you, my daughter, were so young, such a child still. So unaffected."

"I was not unaffected."

Her father gave her a pensive look. "Either way. I set my hopes aside. But then I saw you getting to know each other in Ithilien, and I noticed the way he would look at you sometimes, and I hoped again. And once or twice I thought you seemed partial to him, although you are harder to read, dearest, and I was unsure whether you were serious, or just enjoying the attention. When he so unexpectedly accepted my invitation to Dol Amroth, I was almost certain he would offer for you; that perhaps you had come to some agreement already."

"There was never an agreement. Yet I was almost certain too," said Lothíriel honestly.

"And you were far from discouraging. Although perhaps a bit indiscriminate in your flirtations."

Lothíriel cringed as an uncomfortable melancholy seemed to settle on her father. That conversation need never be revisited as far as she was concerned. It was both too raw and too bygone. Besides, it was not her fault that every time she was natural, people interpreted it as flirtatious.

"Lothíriel, I hate to watch you hurt your own prospects with your mischief. But I shall say no more today. It is a heavy thing – I know." He sighed then continued. "Anyway, I hoped, and I knew King Elessar had long been in favour of the match; he told me as much in Ithilien, for he would like to have a representative of Gondor in Rohan and he thought Éomer seemed to like you even last year."

"Ha!" murmured Lothíriel with a disbelieving snort.

"It is true that there is great value in binding our countries closer together. Your Queen also thinks you would do well in Rohan, for –certain diplomatic incidents aside- you have an easy temperament and make friends without much regard for class or cultural boundaries, and you love horses. And of course, Éomer is a good friend to your brothers, Amrothos especially. I expect the match will bring them joy, as it will bring me joy, great joy, to see you so well settled."

Lothíriel just stared at him and took another small sip of her brandy.

"So, what say you, daughter?"

"Ada." She sank deeper into the cushions, and wrapped her arms around her chest. "How do you expect me to say no while knowing that it would disappoint the hopes of my father, my brothers, my king and my queen? To go against all their wishes and stay defiant, no matter the regard it may cost me?"

"I have never known you to be overly concerned about all that before."

"You misjudge me. I care about everyone's good opinion, much like anyone else would. Especially the good opinion of those I love."

"Then hear me, Lothíriel. If Éomer repulses you, if you dislike him as you say, I would not have you marry him."

"He does not _repulse_ me," her voice was low.

"I hope my opinion carries some weight with you, and that you consider duty and honour as well as pleasure. I think he cares for you, and you would grow to care for him. But I love you, Lothíriel, and would not have you unhappy."

Lothíriel stared at him with wide eyes, and then shook her head. "You are a very manipulative man, Ada."

"Am I?"

"Indeed you are. First you wear me down by ignoring me, then you ply me with drinks and endearments, detailing the joy I could bring to all the people that matter to me, and then you disarm me by saying you love me and my happiness means the most? You are not as subtle as you think you are."

"Oh, hm, I am sorry to hear it."

"You are lucky, for the whole point may be moot anyway."

"How so?"

Because," she buried her face in her arms and said in a muffled voice, "marrying Éomer may be what I want."

"Pardon," said Imrahil. "Did you just say you want to marry Éomer?"

"I think so," Lothíriel squeaked. "I don't know. I don't even know _why._ " Aside from that he was everything Lothíriel thought a man should be: strong and honourable and loyal and handsome. Aside from the way she felt when he responded to her teasing with desire in his eyes. Aside from the knowledge that she could not bear to see him wed anyone else.

"Daughters," muttered Imrahil, stroking her hair while she hid from her feelings in the tiny universe she had created in the crook of her elbow. "Why does no one warn a man about daughters?"

At last Lothíriel found the courage to look up again. "You don't know the whole story, Ada."

"I am sure I do not. I'm still not sure what that display was this morning."

Lothíriel hesitated. It had become such a habit to hide her pain and her transgressions from her father, because she did not want to disappoint him, or burden him; because more than anything else she wanted him to be lighthearted and genial in her presence. She also knew that if she kept silent now, they would never be able to talk –not truly- ever again. She took a deep breath. "I tried to run off, Ada. On the road to Lôvaran. That is why Éomer was so furious with me… and that is how Suldis died."

In fits and starts she told him what had happened, glossing over some of the details that would forever be between Éomer and herself alone, but without censoring her guilt, or her sins. Her father's lips grew tighter as she talked, and he shook his head a few times, but did not interrupt her.

When she was finished at last, he walked over to the fireplace, leaned against the mantle and stared into the flames.

"Ada, please, say something."

"What do you want me to say, Lothíriel?"

"Say I disappointed you," said Lothíriel, in a rush to get through the worst.

He turned around and faced her. "Very well. What you did was wrong, and that Éomer is still willing to wed you shows that he has more foolhardiness than sense. I cannot imagine what you put him through, and I suppose I must thank my lucky stars that it was not I who had to chase you that night.

"I know. I had not thought until I saw the look in his eyes when he found me. It was so selfish."

Her father made a frustrated gesture with his hands. "That is nothing compared to the sheer stupidity of it. We are all of us selfish at times, but to go riding through the wilds without protection, while you must have known I would have had you put on a ship to Minas Tirith the moment I learned of your presence in Pelargir! It is senseless, Lothíriel. So I must ask you why. Why would you do such a thing?"

"I suppose because I thought of it and because I knew I could. Or thought I could," said Lothíriel, feeling very small indeed in her father's grand chair.

"If that is all the motive you need to justify your transgressions, I fear for the future."

"You don't understand. I was upset, and confused, and alone, and then I realised I did not have to be. I realised I could take matters into my own hands and just go to Amrothos by myself. It was a terrifying thought, but it was real; a real possibility. And then of course I had to do it. I had to do it to prove I was not a coward."

Her father gave a weary grimace. "Better to be without courage, dear, than misapply it as you do."

"Whenever I do something daring, I feel closer to you. As if I am _like_ you. And like Amrothos, and Elphir, and… I don't know. Like a real Princess of Dol Amroth."

"Valar help me," muttered her father. "For pity's sake, Lothíriel, you are a woman grown."

Yet Lothíriel was now also determined to make her case. "You say that so often. But all it seems to mean to you is that I now should always do exactly as I am told without argument. Of rules and restrictions there are just more. You still treat me as a child, yet one who should be always biddable. There seems to be no advantage in being grown at all."

"I have increased your allowance."

"That is not a real advantage."

"I can take it away."

"Fine. I won't be able to get you anything for Mettarë this year." That got a brief laugh out of Imrahil and it gave Lothíriel courage. "Ada, do you have any idea what it means to me to be always sent away? To feel like I rank so low in your thoughts that you forget to even talk to me, and everyone knows of your movements before I do?"

"You never rank low in my thoughts."

"That may be so," admitted Lothíriel. "It is but a feeling after all, and I wish I did not have it. But still. To be dismissed, it gets harder all the time and sometimes I feel alone."

"It is no excuse to do something so ill-advised."

"I am giving you reasons, not excuses. I know what I did was wrong, but you did ask me why."

"So I suppose this torture was intended for me after all."

Her father looked so burdened that Lothíriel was ready to throw up from guilt once more. Instead she got to her feet, opened the window and let the cold air rush in. The night was windless, still and stars shone through the branches of the cherry tree in front of their home. The water in the fountain shimmered with a thin layer of frost. She leaned over the windowsill and breathed deeply a few times, then closed the shutters. She turned around to find her father sitting in his chair once more. He seemed sad, and troubled, and ponderous, and in every way like she had never wanted to see him look again. She crossed the distance between them and sat beside him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He did not push her away and for the moment it was all she needed.

At last she sat up and spoke. "So… what happens now?"

"I will not punish you, Lothíriel, if that is what you mean. It was very ill done, but I think you know this now. And it is folly to try and correct stupidity through punishment."

Lothíriel bit her lip. It was much nicer to think of oneself as reckless and rebellious rather than stupid.

"There is one thing. I will not get you a new horse, and neither will you acquire one with your own allowance. Any exercise will happen under strict supervision. No more pleasure rides with Hethlil and Raissel. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Ada. Yet I did promise Raissel to ride with her more, so she can practice."

"That won't be possible anyway."

"Why not?"

Her father sighed and refilled their glasses. "Have another brandy, Lothíriel. It is grape and honey. Do you like it?"

Lothíriel nodded, more than a little bewildered.

"Good. Now tell me what you know of the situation in Belfalas."

Lothíriel did not know much at all, aside from what she had overheard the day her father had left on _Gil-en-aear_.

"And do you remember what happened during the war?"

Dutifully, Lothíriel recounted the history she knew: the coastal towns and cities were greatly beset, and many were forced to flee their homes. Lord Angbor of Lamedon had made a desperate last stand at Linhir, but King Elessar had come with an army of ghosts and defeated the brunt of the Corsair force, after which he took possession of the ships together with the Dúnedain, their northern kin, and sailed to Minas Tirith.

"It seems a good end, doesn't it?" said her father, drumming his fingers on the table. "Yet your brother Elphir has been dealing with the ripples caused by individual actions, my actions in particular, and I am afraid the burden has been too much for him alone."

"Impossible," said Lothíriel, thinking of her competent oldest brother. "Elphir can do anything."

"It is not Elphir's competence or character that is in question. It is my absence that has been causing disquiet, and I can no longer ignore it. You see, some of the coastal lords still resent me for riding for Minas Tirith while their lands were under attack."

Lothíriel was alarmed, and somewhat incredulous. "But why? What you did was brave and honourable. The Steward had called for aid and you fought so hard. You rescued Faramir, and the city."

"I obeyed your Uncle's summons because I knew in the grand scheme of things the Corsairs were a distraction, whereas the fall of Minas Tirith would have meant the fall of Middle-Earth."

"And you were right; it would have."

"But would I have done the same if it had been Dol Amroth burning? If it had been my home about to be ransacked, and nothing but the Swan Knights between my daughter and those pirates? Sometimes there are no good choices, Lothíriel. Only the lesser of two evils. Húron fought and bled and lost so that your brothers and I could ride to Minas Tirith, and so he has reason to resent me, perhaps even right. It is a lord's duty to protect his vassals as much as it is to obey his king, or those who sit in the king's place. Yes, it has weighed on me. I have thought of many ways to repair this relationship in the past year or so."

He looked at her and Lothíriel's breath caught in her throat. "You would have given me in marriage to Lord Húron?"

"I would have considered it. Does that shock you?"

"… He is not a kind man." Nor comely. Nor young.

"He is a fierce warrior, though, of noble birth and a strong leader. Politically, the match would have been right, and a refusal hard to explain. But what you say is true, he is not gentle, and he would expect obedience from a wife. Your aunt would have killed me. But don't let it concern you. He never sought your hand. He tried to arrange a match with his brother, Lord Glirion, instead. I rejected that; it would be an insupportable degradation. Of course, according to Hinnor that was precisely the point."

"Ada, I don't understand. Everyone loves you."

Her father smiled painfully. "Throughout the war, my palace and riches lay untouched, and sheltered in Dol Amroth, and afterwards I was rewarded by the king with more lands and honours still. Be assured that I have enemies."

"For the sake of money?"

"Lands and gold, my dear. Even our most recent war was about land and gold as much as about light and dark. But there are other reasons too. You know King Elessar has pushed a lot of reforms in a very short span of time. I would not have supported them if I did not believe them for the best, but there are always those who resist change as a matter of course. My continued presence in Minas Tirith has not helped."

"What sort of reforms?" asked Lothíriel, feeling very ignorant.

"Well… for example, during the planting and harvest seasons, King Elessar forbade the corvée, so that each could see to his own lands and the lords could not lay claim to the unpaid labour of their men. And so many people, chief among them the soldiers who returned to their farms, enjoyed the fruits of the bountiful summer, but the lords' profits were not as high as they could have been. Do you follow me, Lothíriel?"

Lothíriel nodded.

"And in the summer, as you must remember, King Elessar conducted a census such as had not been done since the time of Ecthelion. It was necessary for the information and numbers we have are old and we needed to assess the full extent of the damages and losses these years of war have caused. Yet there are rumours that the census was done for purposes of raising taxation; and that the King will further restrict the privileges of the lords and impose such high taxes so that many will be forced to sell their estates. Then the King would be able to award the lands to the Dúnedain who freed it through dark sorcery."

Lothíriel pressed her hands against her mouth in disbelief. Then she shook her head. "But that is ridiculous! King Elessar would never do such a thing! And the Queen told me the Dúnedain will be given lands in Anórien; it is their home after all."

"Rumours and resentment are strangely impervious to facts. You know our King and Queen well, but many do not yet and Húron is a proud and suspicious man. I found he is taking a wife once more, you know."

"He did? Oh, let me guess. He is to wed Anneth of Lamedon."

"Good girl," praised her father. "How did you know?"

Lothíriel made a fluttering gesture with her fingers. "Oh, she has been putting on airs lately, and at our last luncheon sat higher than her cousin who is married, although no engagement had been announced. And I remember they danced the first dance together at the Midsummer ball."

"Oh, they did? And I thought everyone was supposed to be masked?"

"Ada, Hethlil, Raissel and I were the hosts of the ball, as maidens of the Queen. If you think we did not know who everyone was underneath their masks at all times, then it is you who is naïve, not I."

Imrahil laughed. "I should obviously talk to you more. I did not suspect anything until a few days ago."

"It is a good match for both," said Lothíriel, more than a little relieved.

"It is. Yet that he offered for Anneth while passing you over is another signal to me. Lord Angbor is the hero of the coastal lords."

"But Lord Angbor is a great man! He would never support a rebellion, certainly not one that involves Corsairs." The Fearless, they called him. Anyone with such an epithet could only be great in Lothíriel's eyes.

"Yes, he is a great man. As is Lord Húron in his way."

"Yet you think he may have struck a deal with the Corsairs."

"I do not know, Lothíriel. He has as much reason to hate them as any man in Gondor, perhaps more. Yet how then did they slip past his defenses? I do not know." Her father coughed. "I will be travelling to Belfalas as soon as I am able and for the moment plan to take up residence in Bar Dúven. It is my wish that you come with me."

Lothíriel's heart filled with delight. "Ada, do you mean it?"

"I do. But remember, Lothíriel, that I expect you to work. There is much to be set right, and there will be a lot for you to do. I intend to stay for at least a year."

"A year…"

"A year, yes, although perhaps somewhat less for you. Besides, you should be married from home. That is our way."

She had almost forgotten she was engaged – or maybe engaged. Her heart started racing again. "Éomer may not like that. He is king, you know."

"So you will consent?"

"I…," she could not continue and her father tapped his lips thoughtfully.

"Éomer is young, and not without his faults. He can be impetuous and hotheaded –well, this you know-, denies himself as a matter of course, and he craves battle so that he would follow Elessar on his campaigns without even pausing to ask who or why he is fighting. You could be just what he needs."

"How so? You think my natural flair for rebellion will stimulate him to question his loyalty to King Elessar?"

"No, dearest, although considered loyalty is better than blind loyalty. I meant that you are solicitous and caring and generous with those you love best, and transparent in your affections. You have it in you to be a loving wife, and to create a home that is a joy to return to."

Lothíriel's face felt so hot that she raised her hands to her cheeks involuntarily. "You think far too highly of me, Ada. The rest of the world will declare you silly for it."

"Then silly I shall be. You are my daughter, Lothíriel, and I know your worth. Indeed, I am not sure what I will do without you laying out my clothes for me, and filling my house with fun, flowers and food. I found a new picture in my study the other day," he said, gesturing at the wall where now hung the portrait of her youngest nephew.

"Amrothos drew it. I had it framed; I thought you might like to look at it as you worked."

"It was a sweet thought."

"I did not think you noticed anything I did."

"Of course I notice. You are too reliant on praise, Lothíriel. If you do not learn to take satisfaction in a job well done for its own sake, you will have a hard time in this world."

"You truly think I could be a queen? After everything I told you?"

"I do. After everything you told me."

"Hethlil will always be smarter than I," pointed out Lothíriel. "And Raissel will always be prettier."

"Ah, but you shall always be the better dancer."

She put her hands in her side, both annoyed and flattered in spite of herself. "Ada, no one cares about that. People will expect me to be queenly, not dance around like a trouper."

"You would be surprised," said her father. "I believe you are capable. I have always believed it. Yet you will have to want to learn, and be open to guidance. If you cannot commit to that wholeheartedly, then do not at all. I don't have to remind you that as Queen of Rohan your mistakes may be much more costly than the loss of one horse."

Lothíriel nodded and sat on her hands again, her heart beating in her throat.

"So what say you?"

Lothíriel puffed up her cheeks and then slowly blew out all the air in her lungs. In truth, she was afraid, afraid of being Queen of Rohan and afraid to be wed to Éomer with all his moods and his keen eye for her faults. According to all previous rules Lothíriel had devised for herself, this meant that she should do it, no further questions necessary. But this had not led to the best decision-making in the past. Besides, saying no was almost as terrifying because it would surely break her heart. And could Éomer be trusted to choose a better wife whom it would not be a punishment to step aside for? Hethlil, one of the best women she knew, had not held his attention and even that would have been barely tolerable. On the other hand, if she did say yes, and would marry Éomer while he felt so cool and disdainful towards her as he had for the past weeks… while she did not know how to reach him when he withdrew from her…. then her heart would break too, more slowly perhaps, but all the more painful for it.

She sat up. "I know what I need to do."

Her father looked instantly suspicious. "What are you planning, daughter?"

"Hmm. Research."

The frown deepened. "Research?"

"I will let you know my answer tomorrow morning. Or at dinner at the latest. Is that acceptable? You did say I had a few days earlier."

Her father studied her for another moment or two and then emptied the rest of his glass in one draft. "Very well," he said in the end, resignation in his voice. "Just remember: there is an appropriate interval beyond which not answering a proposal is considered unnecessarily suspenseful. Make sure you do not exceed it."

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Notes_

 _"Better be without sense_ _, than misapply it as you do," is what Mr Knightley says to Emma._

 _Sorry for the short delay in posting; I know I had promised it'd be here sooner. Life and such. And then the site was giving me trouble and I had to jump through some hoops to post; if there are problems with the chapter that seem dodgy, let me know._

 _I know that this still was not what everyone is waiting for, but for me this conversation has long been at the very heart of this story. It was a tough one, both for the characters and for me, but so important!_

 _Thank you so much for all the comments on the last chapter! I really enjoyed seeing all the different reactions and the general surprise. Sharing this story with you all has been one of the highlights of the winter holidays, really, so thank you!_

 _As you see, I have changed the icon for this story and First Impressions. This will be a temporary one. I came across it while browsing vintage ballet photos (as you do – if you are me) and while the dancer in the picture looks nothing like Lothiriel, she certainly moves the way Lothi would so I had to save it. :-)_

 _The Stag Knight, I think Éomer is too young and too passionate (and perhaps if we go by contemporary sensibilities also too honourable) a man to marry without a chance of mutual (physical) love and attraction – Hethlil sees that too - although I acknowledge other men in his position might have made a different choice for there is no doubt that Hethlil is much more ready to be queen. Anyway, Hethlil's story is not done. I will say more of the third installment after the next chapter (which will be the last)._

 _I know I'll enjoy writing every last sentence of it. Meanwhile, thank you all for reading._


	24. A Different Thing (Epilogue)

**A Different Thing (Epilogue)**

It was a dark night, crisp and cool, lit only by the torches along the wall and the stars in the sky. His sister's house was quiet (Elboron had, after another round of cradle songs and three more grudging renditions of _Pony in the Meadow_ by his exhausted mother, finally drifted off to sleep), and Éomer was reading by candlelight (he had put aside the maps he had been studying in favour of a curious text Aragorn had lent him some days ago – _Mysteries of Nan Garan_ – which had seemed entirely frivolous but was strangely entertaining nonetheless). After the scene in Aragorn's council room, Éomer had found himself in the gardens near Merethrond, pacing under the canopy of trees and walking the ancient labyrinth at its centre until he knew the path by heart. By that time it had been close to sunset and too late to start the journey home. His sister had not even blinked when he appeared on her doorstep again, refusing to answer any questions. He wondered what she suspected.

Then he heard it, a low, brief thud and something scratching at the wall – no, the window. Someone outside! Éomer had already risen to his feet and armed himself.

"Who's there?" he demanded. "Show yourself."

"It's Lothíriel," came a small voice. And then. "Please don't stab me."

He opened the shutters and there she was, a slight figure on the windowsill, legs dangling over the side. She was dressed in a simple blue doublet, a long-sleeved shirt and leggings that were tight at the ankles but loose where they hugged her hips. Her curls were bound back into a single braid. For all her jewels and fine clothes, this was how he had come to like to see her best: natural, somewhat unkempt, like the pretty hoyden he met two summers ago.

Then he recalled himself and was annoyed. "How did you get here?"

She swung her legs over to the other side and let herself drop to the floor of his chamber. "I climbed a wall. And then a tree."

"Of course you did."

"It was quite easy. It took me a while to discover what room you were in. This is a large house." She tilted her head and tugged some wayward curls back into their rightful place.

"Lothíriel, you fool. My guards might have shot you or cut you down before you could even cry out had they discovered you!"

"Yes, they are rather lucky I am not a Haradrim assassin or something. I would speak to Éothain, if I were you. In fact, I have been thinking we might want to consider some alternative occupation for him."

"We?"

She looked down at her hands and flexed her fingers. "Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves."

For a moment they stood quietly while she assessed him, contemplating his features and the knife still in his hand.

"Lothi, you have to stop doing things like this," said Éomer at last.

"I weighed all the pros and cons very carefully this time. Could you put that down, please?" She gestured at his knife.

Éomer was fairly sure that in Lothíriel's book 'weighing all the pros and cons very carefully' meant briefly considering the sensible alternative but dismissing it as too mundane an option. Nonetheless, he placed the knife back on the table.

"I had to talk to you before you left, in private, and I saw no other way to do it," continued Lothíriel. "You must know that your proposal ensured that they will now never let us meet alone without a chaperone until the wedding night."

He had, in fact, not thought of that. "Oh."

"And I'm afraid that any chaperone, even my brother, would not approve of all the aspects that I feel should be part of this decision process."

His throat tightened as he felt his pulse speed up. "I hope you are not suggesting what I think you are suggesting."

"What do you think I am suggesting?" It took her less than a second to search his eyes and then she grinned. "Do you remember the night we met, when I snuck into Amrothos' tent on the Pelennor?"

Far more often and far more vividly than he cared to admit. "I do."

"You thought I was a camp follower. And not a very appealing one."

"I quickly adjusted that impression."

"Which one?"

The second. Even before the first. Did Lothíriel know how close he had come to ravishing her right there? It had been one of the reasons – perhaps the main reason - that he found it so hard to forgive her for it. He had almost forced himself on Imrahil's lithe and young daughter, a Princess of Gondor, and only fortune and a vague sense of propriety had saved him. "Both," he said, a little hoarsely.

It made her smile. "I have a theory. Or rather, a proposal for an experiment."

"Indeed?"

"I think we should kiss."

It was a typically outrageous statement – he should be used to them by now - and yet the boldness of the proposal took him aback. After everything that had happened between them, she dared to sneak into his chambers in the midst of night and ask for a kiss – no, not even ask! Then he focused on the important part and his heart sped up again. As far as Lothíriel's schemes went, this one seemed suddenly very sensible. After all, to marry without once claiming a kiss from the intended bride was almost comically timid. "Very well."

And then she stood on the very tips of her toes and kissed him. Her lips were soft, and warm, and she was kissing him in earnest, not tentative like one might have expected of a Gondorian maiden, but with all the passion and enthusiasm with which Lothíriel of Dol Amroth did anything, with all her body, and with all her heart. A princess of Gondor had no business kissing like this, thought Éomer rather stupidly for a moment. Then he wrapped his arms around her, drew her in and lifted her off her feet to deepen the kiss, and wondered how much trouble they might have avoided if he had just given into his impulse and kissed her in her brother's tent all those months ago… But no, that would have been disastrous. If he had known she would kiss and melt into his arms like this then, well, Amrothos might have walked in on a scene that would have offended even his sensibilities.

Then they both stopped, as if by agreement, and she did a step back, and it took all he had not to close the distance between them and claim her again. He stared at her and saw all the emotions dancing in her expressive grey eyes: playfulness, confusion, and desire.

"Thank you," she said.

It almost made him laugh out loud.

She walked over to where Éothain had left a flagon of wine and poured herself some. There was just one cup, so after Lothíriel had drank deep, she offered it to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers brushed against hers as he took it from her, but her countenance was calm, almost cursory. She knew nothing. Absolutely nothing.

She regarded him while he drank, and when she refilled the cup for him he noticed she was shivering. It was indeed a little chill in the room, as the nights dipped deeper into winter and the stone city on the mountain was covered in a layer of frost. It was odd how much the seasons differed in Minas Tirith and Ithilien, so close together and yet the deep valleys of the forests seemed to trap the heat so that winters were shorter there, more wet than cold, followed by a long and early spring. "Would you let me have a fire?" asked Lothíriel suddenly.

"Pardon?" asked Éomer, still a little dazzled.

"Your cook, Alodie, told me once you never light a fire in your bedroom even in winter. I'm afraid I might freeze to death before the first solstice. Of course, perhaps that is your intention."

"Wait - what?"

"Did you propose to punish me?"

"I – hold on, Lothíriel…"

"So you could legally give me one of those hidings you are always threatening me with?"

Éomer could not quite comprehend how they had got from kissing to here in what seemed less than a minute. "What? Lothi – no."

"What, then? Are you that determined to bed me?"

He threw his hands in the air. "You are impossible. I just don't know what to do with you."

"Marry me, apparently. I suppose it is better than war."

There was a little smirk in the corner of her mouth. Was she teasing him? Why could he never be sure? "What did you want, some passionate declaration of love? After you told me you would never forgive me for putting down Suldis, and I find you've taken Firefoot from his stables under false pretenses, which I then discover was all because you had gotten it in your head that that was the best way to apologise and say goodbye?"

"It does sound insane when you put it like that," said Lothíriel pensively.

"It was insane!"

"I made a promise to Éowyn."

"She did not mean for you to take the most temperamental horse you could find and perform a series of carnival tricks on his back!"

Lothíriel crossed her arms. "Well, she was not very specific."

He gave up. "So what do you want to hear, Lothi?"

"I don't know. I just wish you had talked to me. I tried to get you to speak weeks ago and you just… You must have known that if you went over my head, my father would say yes and try to persuade me, and that I would be under a lot of pressure to accept regardless of my feelings."

Was _that_ what was going on? "Lothíriel, I've never known you to do anything out of duty, and I shall be very annoyed if you start saying you will now."

She leaned back against the wall and stared at her feet. "Actually, I find that the lines between duty and love can be a lot more blurred than I thought they could. And I am very lucky it is so for me because I do not think I could do one without the other. I mean…" She paused, struggling to find the words, so unsure now, so thoughtful. "To love is to do right by the people you hold dear, and… Like you are bound to Rohan by love and duty, and it does not matter where one begins and the other ends: as a king, you have a duty to love your land, and it is a duty that you love. We are both of us very lucky."

Éomer nodded and took a deep breath. "Did you know that Firefoot never lets anyone ride him but me?"

"Aldor mentioned something of the sort."

"And yet you rode him."

"He has always liked me. I do not know why."

"I think we must conclude that impossible, bewitching southern princesses are the chink in his armour. You seem to have quite turned his head."

She knew what he was saying. "Is that why you asked for my hand?"

He sighed. "I did not intend to do it," he said after a moment. "And I did it against my better judgment. But yes, I suppose that is why."

He wondered if she would be offended by his candour, but there was a ghost of a grin on her face as she weighed his words. "You offered for me out of a fit of pique."

"I do like you, Lothi."

"Yes," she said. "I like you too."

"I would like you to say yes."

"I will say yes."

So simple. He took her hand in his and pulled her closer, and she smiled and let herself be drawn in. Then her eyes fell on the book he had left open on the table and she laughed out loud.

"Hold on, I recognise that script. Éomer, are you reading _The Mysteries of Nan Garan_?"

He felt himself go somewhat red in the face. "Aragorn lent it to me. I thought I should at least have a look."

"Of course. Very kingly."

"Wait," he scowled, remembering some of the more risqué parts. "Have you read it?"

She shrugged. "Every maiden in Minas Tirith has, I'm sure. I gave my copy to your sister before we left. Do you know my favourite chapter?"

"The Haradric Mummer?" he guessed. It was the most suggestive passage he had come across so far.

"No," said Lothíriel. "Although that is a good one. But I like the one with the barbarian from the north. He is by far the most handsome and best character in the book, I think."

He had to kiss her again after that, long and slow, while she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her hands in his hair.

"So, when can we marry?" he asked, after they had broken apart, her gaze still lingering on his lips.

"One hundred days is the minimum waiting period in Gondor. My father spoke of a year, or somewhat less. A year is common and probably what people will expect."

"Somewhat less it is. A year is too long."

"And he thinks I should be married from home. In Dol Amroth."

"Oh, does he?" Éomer frowned, a trifle annoyed. It would mean another month away from the Mark – two, easily – for no purpose other than southern ceremony. And his people had not had a queen in years.

"It would mean a lot to me too, Éomer. It is our custom to marry in our fathers' hall, and it is how I always thought it would be for me. My nephews and my aunt and my sister-in-law, they could never come to Edoras to see me wed. And I should like it if you saw my home. Just once."

She was impossible to resist when this sincere. He could only hope that she'd never find out. "I will talk to your father. I may be willing to negotiate it."

"Negotiate it?" She wove their fingers together, almost giddy now. "And what would you ask in return – more gold?"

"No, not gold." He had some ideas. Lessons in self-defense for his far too reckless wife-to-be over the next few months, perhaps. But he was not going to bring that up with Lothíriel. Who knew what she would do if she decided to take that in her own hands? "I will do my best, Lothi. If it is important to you." Perhaps they could split the ceremonies in two, so that they might wed in Dol Amroth, but Lothíriel be crowned in front of his people at Meduseld. That might serve.

She nodded, seeming pleased, and leaned against him. "My father is taking me to Belfalas, to one of our castles in the south. I will finally get to be near the major ports, perhaps even sail the open sea… and do something real for my family. He said we could work together."

"I am happy for you."

"Over the past few weeks I have gotten almost everything wrong. And yet now I think I got just what I want. It is strange how things work out sometimes, isn't it?"

It was a line of thought he felt it prudent to discourage at once. "Lothíriel. I am still upset with you."

"I know. Kiss me again."

What could he do but comply? And just to show her who was still in charge –somewhat- he sat down on the bed and pulled her onto his lap so that she was forced to wrap her legs around his waist to keep from falling. After all, it was not as if Lothíriel seemed to be setting any reasonable restrictions for them, for her hands had found a way under his shirt and she was tracing his muscles with both index fingers all the way along his shoulders. Her entire body was now pressed against his and for a moment he heard nothing but her rapid breathing and her heart thumping in her chest. Then she whispered his name in a manner that sent shivers down his spine, and in that moment Éomer realised that Lothíriel might not actually stop him if he went further, tugged her shirt fully down her shoulders, might not actually stop him at all. He felt both shock and such a strong surge of desire that it nearly undid him. But Éomer had long learned how to control himself, and he was in his sister's house, two doors down from his nephew, unwed and not even sure if he were technically engaged. So he untangled her limbs from his and brought them down with gentle kisses, then pulled away and slowly brushed her lip with his thumb. Afterwards she seemed well pleased, and she curled up in his arms like a feather in the flames. For a while she babbled on a bit about their time in Ithilien, _endwist_ and Éowyn and Faramir's arguments over breakfast, then she rested her head against his chest, and made to close her eyes.

"Lothi," he said softly. "You cannot sleep here."

"Hmm, that sounds _fun_ ," said Lothíriel, still languid as he held her and eyeing the pillows behind him through her lashes.

"You'll be the death of me yet," muttered Éomer.

He lifted her up, crossed the room and rapped the door with his knuckles. The answer came fast.

"Éothain. Can you see Princess Lothíriel back to her father's house?"

The answer came faster still, in rapid Rohirric. "Are you sure? The moon is slim tonight, so really the odds are…"

Éomer gritted his teeth, opened the door and placed his betrothed on the doorstep with some determination. "Take the Princess home and make sure she stays there. Lothi, stay out of trouble. Please."

"Of course, Lord. Come, _hl_ _ae_ _fdige min_." His captain bowed to Lothíriel and she took the proffered arm with some hesitation. And over her head, Éothain grinned at Éomer, smug as a dog with two tails.

=End of Part Two=

* * *

 _Postscript (and it is long)._

 _"I have_ _ **none of the usual inducements**_ _of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be_ _ **a different thing**_ _! but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so_ _ **always first and always right**_ _in any man's eyes as I am in my father's."_

 _From "Emma" by Jane Austen_

 _I had this quote calligraphed above my bed the first night I took my husband back to my dorm – before we even started dating. Somehow he still took a chance on me. It is the one I had in my head when I started connecting the Lothíriel I had created to Emma Woodhouse and Lydia rather than Elizabeth Bennet, and it provided – as you now know – the title for the story, and the title for the final two chapters._

 _Yes, there will be a sequel, the last in this trilogy. I am expecting it to be a little shorter than None of the Usual Inducements, but still novel-length. The story will pick up about eight months from now, and we will finally be in Dol Amroth. Just like between First Impressions and None of the Usual Inducements there will be a bit of a tone shift: we will be seeing a more mature Lothíriel whose insecurities and vulnerabilities are more on the surface after everything that has happened. This final installment will not take any direct cues from an Austen novel in terms of plot, because in Austen the engagement is the (happy) ending, although there may be references still. Its title will simply be "Lothíriel", which is of course very Austen too._

 _As Lothíriel is growing and learning more about the world, so also are the thematic concerns of this series getting more explicitly mature and complex. There will be some mature moments in the next installment, and although I still think it a T-rated story, I know mileage varies there. Sexuality has always had a bigger part in this story than it would have in an Austen novel - and political and social tension too, especially now Lothi is aware of it. If you have any concerns, please send me a message and I'd be happy to advise._

 _Then the bad news: it will be a while before "Lothíriel" will be online. I've decided not to write it as a serial: it will be posted in chapters when I have written the end, much like I have done with these past seven chapters. I have learned from my experience with this one, and it is just what seems to work better for me. And since I need to my finish my PhD dissertation by the end of this calendar year, I may not have much time for binge-fic writing for a while._

 _However, I do have an almost complete draft of the prologue and first chapter and I have sat on those for a long time already. Like with None of the Usual Inducements, I could post them as a teaser that you may then bookmark or follow. Or I could wait, depending on what you think you'd prefer. If it helps: this is the cozier and more natural ending, but the prologue also answers some questions that I know some of you have wanted answered for a long time, and perhaps it can help you decide if you'd like the third story. Let me know what you all think; I will listen if people are generally in favour of one or the other. You can have my word that if I do not spontaneously combust or something, it will be finished and posted regardless, just like this one was in the end._

 _Guest, I think often when readers say that Éomer should have chosen Hethlil what they really mean is "you should have written a Lothíriel who is more like Hethlil because then it would have been easier for me to root for her/them". And that makes sense, but there are many Éomer / Lothíriel stories in this archive featuring Lothíriels like that – or Lothíriels who are the best among their peers – and I wanted to do something different so I could explore some things other stories don't._

 _However, I love Lialathuveril's stories, and she almost invariably writes Lothíriels who are rather wise beyond their years and easy to like, with just the right level of obstinacy and determination. Deandra has written a lot of Éomer / Lothíriel stories that lean more heavily on canonical themes; her stories are really well paced and carefully researched, and her Lothíriels vary a lot but they are in the end always admirable. The Moonlily writes epic and sweeping romances with heroines you feel for until the end. Thanwen's wonderful Choppy Waters (and I imagine its sequels, although I have not read them yet) features a Lothíriel quite as wild as this one, but with more sense and sensibility both; that may be a good choice if you were frustrated with this Lothi's immaturity and would like something that is historically and culturally (but not necessarily virtue-thematically) true to canon. And those are just prolific authors whose stories I read before I started working on my own in earnest (I have not read a lot of Éomer / Lothíriel in the past two years, also so I could stay true to my own story) and I know there are some new writers in the fandom who have been really productive and helped the ship become more popular again, as well as many writers who just wrote one standalone scenario; and many of those are great fun as well. It's always going to be personal which one resonates with you; these are just some recommendations. :-)_

 _Finally, if you enjoyed this story, please leave a comment or maybe add it to your favourites to help others find it. And to everyone who left encouraging reviews, who loved Lothíriel, who hated Lothíriel, who sent me messages and nudges and prods: thank you. Thank you, a lot._


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